Lost Souls
by lastknownwriter
Summary: AU. Homicide detective Dean Winchester is thrust into a past he has tried hard to forget when he finds himself leading a manhunt for an unlikely killer: his childhood best friend, Castiel.
1. Chapter 1

Castiel Novak rolled down the window as he left the highway and entered his neighborhood. He enjoyed the faint tang of citrus that wafted through the car as he neared his drive; Mr. Grady's lemon trees next door must have dropped their last fruit of the season. He parked next to his wife Daphne's small grey sedan, and reached across the seat for a brown paper bag of groceries. It had been his turn to pick up milk and coffee. As a writer and consultant, he mostly worked from home, but he had been doing research all week at the local university library.

The air was crisp, the sky a clear blue, and the leaves on the maple tree in the front yard had just begun to turn a brilliant hue of orange. It was the perfect fall day. Over the weekend, Daphne had carved pumpkins with a kit she had picked up at a discount hobby store, and the fat, smiling globes were perched on the porch front steps. Smiling down at his wife's handiwork, Cas stumbled over the top step, dropping his keys.

He bent to retrieve them, but paused at a noise from inside the house. He cocked his head, listening, but there were only familiar neighborhood sounds: a car passing on the street, the squeaking of a child's swingset. The days were growing colder, daylight hours shortening, and he shivered at a sudden chill, pulling his overcoat snug around him.

He plucked the keys from the step and unlocked the front door. "Daphne," he called, and pushed the door shut with his foot, crossing the polished hardwood floors to the kitchen. He was met with the silence of an empty home.

Setting the grocery bag on the countertop, he paused, scanning the room. An empty coffee cup sat next to the sink, the mail lying beside it in an orderly pile. He often teased Daphne about her compulsive neatness, even when it secretly made him crazy.

Sometimes he teased because it was the only thing that kept him from shouting in frustration, _Leave it alone! _Those were the days he wasn't sure how his life had turned out like this; who _was_ this man who came home to a charming mid-century house tucked into a sweet, family-oriented neighborhood. Whose wife carved pumpkins and made bread from scratch.

It felt false.

Cas sighed, shaking himself free of his melancholy. The kitchen was otherwise empty; no dinner on the stove or in the oven, dining table bare. He picked up the stack of mail, flipping through the letters, pausing at a handwritten envelope with his name on it. It was postmarked Cedar Falls, Tennessee. No return address.

Cedar Falls. He frowned, brow furrowing. He had just turned the envelope over to open it when a crash from upstairs startled him.

"Daphne," he called again, stepping into the foyer. "Daph, is that you?" The house was still. He tucked the letter absently into his jacket pocket and started up the staircase. The air tightened around him and he felt a prickle of fear lift the hairs on the back of his neck. Wiping damp palms on his pants, he jogged up the remaining steps, a new urgency in his movements.

Licking suddenly dry lips, he tried to call out again, but found he'd lost his voice. At the top of the landing, he stopped, heart pumping, breathing in short gasps. He now had a sickening premonition of what he would find, mingling with an odd sense of déjà vu.

The silence was oppressive, hot, and he felt too warm whereas moments before he had been chilled by the autumn day.

He forced himself to enter the bedroom. The windows were open, and a breeze blew long strips of white lace across the bed. The curtains held his attention, his thoughts random and jumbled, as he fought to remember if the windows had been open that morning. It had been cool the night before; the first night they had used the heat. A low moan from the other side of the room startled him and he raced around the bed, pulling up in dismay at the scene on the floor.

Daphne lay on her back between the bed and the wall, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, arms thrown out. The scarred brown handle of a large knife protruded from the center of her chest, a dark red circle of blood growing in size even as he watched in horror. Cas dropped to his knees and clasped at her limp hand.

"Daphne, oh my God_, _can you hear me?" His movements jerky, he tried to gauge the damage to her chest without touching the knife. His hands came away sticky, covered in blood, and he held them out in front of him. He started to shake. Daphne moaned again, and her eyelids fluttered. Cas leaned over her head, his lips close to her ear.

"Oh God, Daph, hold on, okay. Just for a few more seconds, you're going to be okay." But she didn't respond, and Cas couldn't tell whether or not she was breathing. He stumbled to the bathroom and grabbed a thick white towel off the bar. Back at her side, he kneeled and tried to find a way to staunch the bleeding around the hilt of the knife, but it was impossible. He didn't have time to decide if he would cause more damage by removing it, first aid training frightfully forgotten over the years, but he could see that she was losing blood too fast, her milky paleness making the decision for him.

He willed himself to pull the knife out of her chest. Hands trembling violently, he closed his eyes, clasped the wooden hilt with both hands and tugged gently. It didn't move and he opened his eyes. Daphne's form was lifeless now, the pallor of her skin a deathly grey. The room was silent save for Cas' ragged breathing, and the lace curtains billowed softly around them as if this were any other October day.

He gritted his teeth and pulled the knife as hard as he dared, feeling it give under his hands, slicing through Daphne's chest in reverse. He shuddered, dropping the knife beside him and pressing the towel over the oozing hole in her chest. A faint gurgle from her throat drew his eyes to her face and he bent down. "Daph, can you hear me?" His voice was thick with fear. "Hang on, just hang on!"

Another faint gurgle, and her eyes seemed to focus on him, clearing for an instant. Cas dared to lift one hand from the bloodied terry cloth. He brushed a strand of dark hair off her forehead. Her lips moved slightly.

"Love you," she whispered before her eyes closed.

Cas looked frantically around him for the phone; the nightstand lay at an awkward angle against the bed, where it must have been knocked over in a struggle. Then he saw it, the cordless receiver laying on the floor under the bed, near her hand where she had dropped it, maybe tried to call for help. He reached for it with one hand and dialed 911, keeping pressure on the wound. He raised the phone to his ear but was met with empty silence on the other end.

Fighting panic, he tried again, pushing the buttons, leaving red fingerprints behind before he accepting the line was dead. His eyes fell to the phone line, following it out from under the bed, along the baseboards. Beside him, under the window, it had been slashed in two, the cut vicious enough to slice through the layers of paint and into the sheetrock underneath.

Daphne's eyes were closed now, and he leaned over her, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Daphne, I'll be back, hang on, I'll be right back."

He ran down the stairs and across the foyer, skidding in his haste. He pulled at the door handle, the blood making his hands slick and useless. Desperate, he clawed at the door until he was able to pull it open and raced down the steps and across the lawn, nearly crashing into the astonished arms of his next door neighbor, Mack Grady. He managed to tell him that Daphne had been stabbed before he blacked out.

...

The alarm clock's piercing buzz took more than a few moments to penetrate the fog of Dean's sleeping brain. He slapped at the snooze button, then scrubbed his face with his hands. He eyed the red digital numbers.

Four p.m.

That was a late start, even for him. He stared up at the crack that snaked across the bedroom ceiling plaster, wondering just how much snow would have to fall this winter for the weight to finally be too much for the sagging roofline.

He made quick work of his shower, dressing in faded blue jeans and a wrinkled blue button down that had seen better days. He scratched the day-old growth on his cheeks, but couldn't seem to find the energy to shave. Hell, the day was more than half over anyway. He pondered his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell. Digging around in the medicine cabinet, he found a bottle of Visine and squirted a few drops into each eye. Maybe without the bloodshot whites, he wouldn't look like just any other drunk that stumbled into the precinct tonight.

Badge, gun, keys, phone. He walked through the kitchen and out the adjacent garage door, scowling at the basket of towels on top of the washing machine beside the stoop. He would be out of towels tonight when he got home, because he had forgotten to load the washer again. His brother Sam was right; he should just pay for a damn maid. It always seemed like such a stupid waste of money, until he ran out of socks.

He climbed into a black Chevy impala, the worn leather seat curving perfectly to his backside. Nevermind that the motor had had to be completely replaced last winter. Or that there wasn't an original piece of hardware left under the hood. Dean had been driving this car since he was seventeen years old, and it "fit". It was an old friend he could always count on: predictable and comfortable. And yeah, it was getting old and worn in some places. Who wasn't?

Cas had been the first person to ride in it. When they were kids they used to go up to the lake to camp on the weekends, sleeping under the stars, and, on one stormy summer night, in the backseat. He scowled again. It may be late afternoon, but it was still too early for that particular memory lane.

Pulling out onto the quiet street, he could see Mrs. Mahoney walking her pug, Snickers. He waved as he drove past, and she lifted her white-gloved hand in response. Mrs. Mahoney still wore a hat and gloves whenever she left the house. Today it was a blue pillbox with tiny netting pulled down over her forehead. Dean found himself smiling for the first time since waking.

...

Dean paced impatiently outside the examining room that held the remains of Daphne Novak. His ex-best friend's wife. Even in his wrinkled shirt and jeans, his appearance must have given away his profession; there had been a few lowlifes in the waiting room earlier that had judiciously refused to meet his gaze.

He raked his hands through his hair. He had already been here for over an hour, waiting for word that Mr. Novak could be seen. Cas had apparently been nearly catatonic when the EMTs brought him into the emergency room, covered in his wife's blood. At present, he was a mere two doors down from where Dean stood. It was the closest in proximity they had been in five years, since the day Cas had walked out of the apartment they shared and swore he would never return.

Dean had barely been in the precinct ten minutes this afternoon before the call came in about a possible homicide on Deer Creek Lane. He had just swallowed a sip of Jo's lethal, polluted coffee, and was staunchly ignoring the good-natured ribbing about his rough appearance from Sam. And from Bobby, the chief, who grumbled that Dean was going to drink himself into an early grave if he wasn't careful. Dean's heart had stopped when dispatch had repeated the address.

Cas.

Sam drove. Dean didn't remember much about the ride to the tidy house in the quaint, older neighborhood, except for the scent of lemon when he climbed from the unmarked sedan and stood on the sidewalk.

He had never been inside Cas' home before, although he had driven past a time or ten.

An ambulance was screaming down the street in the distance, and Dean was torn between chasing after it and barreling into the house. Sam took over, barking questions at the officers on the scene and relaying the information back to Dean in quiet words, squeezing his arm too hard as he pulled Dean behind him and into the rush, the harsh demands of the crime scene unit shattering the peaceful night.

Dean yanked himself back into the present, staring at the door of Cas' hospital room, wondering if the man inside knew of his wife's demise. The doctor had stopped to let Dean know she was gone about thirty minutes prior. Sam would be well and truly pissed right now, if he knew Dean was still in the hospital, waiting to interview his friend.

Ex-friend. Whatever.

He was too close. Sam was right, he needed to go to the station and sit this one out, wait for Sam to get back to him and feed him information vicariously. But the pull of him, of Cas, was too strong. Dean wanted to make sure he was all right, that was all. Then he would hand it off. There were other homicide detectives, good ones.

Sam's assessment of the crime scene hadn't been reassuring when Dean left. No sign of forced entry, apparent murder weapon found in an upstairs bedroom next to the victim's body. He had left Sam standing on the blood-soaked carpet to race to the hospital, as soon as they had received confirmation that Cas was alive. _Not the victim._

Dean never wanted to relive the moment when he had stood in the bedroom, staring down at the brown-red stain, not knowing if Cas was—

His cell phone rang and he dug it from his pocket. "Sam. Tell me something good, man."

"I think we're about done here, Dean. CSI agreed there is no sign of forced entry, large screen TV and stereo equipment in plain view in the living room," he paused. "Neighbor across the street says she saw Ca—Mr. Novak arrive home at approximately 4:30." Sam looked over at the CSI guy packing up his camera equipment, but the man didn't seem to notice the slip. No sense letting it get out that the victim's husband was a childhood friend. Or at least used to be. There would be time enough for that reveal later.

"How sure is she about the time?" A doctor left Cas' room and nodded at Dean. He was clear to 'interview' him.

"Very sure. Says her son's favorite cartoon comes on at 4:30 and the theme music was playing when she looked up and saw Mr. Novak pull into his drive."

"What time was the 911 call?" Dean had paused outside of Cas' door now.

"At 4:46. But Mr. Novak didn't make that call. He ran across the yard to the neighbor, Mack Grady. Mr. Grady called 911."

Dean snorted. "Let me guess, bastard still doesn't use a cell phone."

Sam chuckled. "Looks that way." He hesitated. "Dean, the phone line in the upstairs bedroom, where the victim was found, was cut clean in two." He cringed, stepping into the dark upstairs hallway, away from prying ears before continuing. "The cut in the wall where the line was slashed, it tested positive for blood, you know, like maybe the line was cut with the knife after Daphne Novak was stabbed."

"To prevent her from calling for help, maybe." Dean had his hand on the door handle.

"Yeah, maybe, but Mr. Novak told the neighbor that _he_'s the one who pulled the knife out of her chest."

Dean paused. "What are you saying, Sam?" He set his teeth.

Sam took the hint. "I'm saying we're going to tread carefully here."

Dean hung up and opened Cas' door without knocking.

Cas was sitting on the bed, his back to him. His dark head was bowed and he looked thinner than Dean remembered. He turned when Dean entered the room, and his deep blue eyes widened in surprise.

"Hello, Cas."

...


	2. Chapter 2

_June 28, 1993_

"Get me a rocket pop!" Cas was bent over his knees, gasping. He pretended to drop his towel, tossing it a few feet behind him down the hill, to give himself a few extra seconds to catch his breath.

"Come _on_ you pussy_,_" Dean yelled over his shoulder.

Cas scowled as he watched Dean's tanned back disappear into the trees, then turned to retrieve the wet towel. They had walked down to the lake after lunch, to spend their two free hours floating on giant, black innertubes and swatting at flies. It would be time for dinner soon and they were both on kitchen duty; that meant eating late and cleaning up the mess hall afterwards. They had time to sneak a popsicle out of the deep freezer in the back of the kitchen first, if Dean could get past Berta, the cook. Cas sometimes thought Berta purposefully looked the other way whenever Dean was around. No two ways about it, this summer Dean had eaten more illegal ice cream sandwiches than everyone else in camp combined.

The temperature fell as soon as Cas stepped onto the pine needle path in the forest, mid-summer sun hidden by the treetops high overhead. The hushed, dark trail cut through the heart of the woods, saving precious minutes that would have been otherwise eaten up if they had followed the lake's edge around to the dormitories before doubling back to the mess hall. Cas took his time, enjoying the peace of the tree cover. He liked the quiet; Dean said it gave him the heebie-jeebies. Cas smiled, remembering the way Dean had climbed into his sleeping bag with him two nights previous during a thunderstorm. There hadn't really been room on the narrow cot for two gangly bodies, but Cas had pushed as far against the wall as possible so that they fit. Dean was so rarely still, even more rarely close these days, and Cas had wanted to relish the moment for as long as he was allowed. Dean was scared of the dark, and of storms too, though he would deny it on pain of death. Cas mused that he was only allowed to know these two small weaknesses because he and Dean had met on the first day of kindergarten and had been inseparable ever since. Besides, they had spent far too many nights in each other's backyards and bedrooms for it not to come up at some point over the course of their childhood.

And anyway, it didn't matter. Cas was scared of plenty of things, and Dean knew almost all of them.

Cas kicked at a pinecone, flushing when he thought of the way Dean's hand had tentatively rested on him that night, waist bare above his pajama pants. Cas was usually cold, and slept covered up in flannel pants and a t-shirt, even in the sticky heat of summer. But the air before the looming storm had been especially oppressive and humid; he had peeled his tee off early and tossed it to the wide-plank floor of their elevated tent. Dean was his opposite, in almost every way, and slept in boxer briefs and nothing else. Cas had tried not to notice how the small garment had clung to his newly filled out form, but it was difficult since Dean pranced around mostly naked whenever possible. Dean's regular body temperature burned like a coal-fed stove, but he might have been showing off a little too. He had grown three inches over the spring, and could now look _down_ at Cas; he was also filling out in other ways, below the waist, and Cas had _really_ tried not to notice that at all.

The crack of a twig broke Cas' reverie and he looked up sharply. Far ahead, he could hear the squeals of the youngest campers in the throes of a game on the playground. He glanced behind him on the trail, hairs standing at attention on the back of his neck_. _He felt something, a presence, like a breath across his temple, hot and damp. He spun around.

Nothing.

The laughter of the children faded into the distance and he listened, hard, as the silence surrounded him, pressing him into the darkness of the thick cluster of pines. He stood very still, waiting, and then just as he thought he was losing his mind, he heard it; a whispered, singsong "_I see you..."_

Cas ran.

He burst through the edge of the treeline and into the hot, bright sun, colliding with Dean and bouncing back hard, flat in the grass.

"Cas, Ow! What the hell?" Dean caught himself before he tumbled to the ground on top of his friend, an ice cream held aloft in each hand.

"_Fuck,"_ Cas whispered, blinking hard against the sudden, dizzying change in direction.

Dean started laughing, bent over at the waist, dripping orange sherbet onto Cas' bare chest. "You said _fuck,_ oh God," Dean gasped between barking honks. "Cas, buddy. You're an f-bomb virgin no more."

"Shut up," Cas said, leaning up on an elbow. He swiped at the sticky orange droplets that ran down his side. "I said Rocket Pop, Dean."

Dean shrugged, still chuckling, and handed him the plastic tube. "And I got you a push pop instead." His bright pink tongue lapped at the top of his own cold treat, catching a droplet of the fast-melting liquid.

Cas sighed and took the ice cream. He kind of hated orange sherbet, but he would never say so. He may know everything there was to know about Dean Winchester, but there were some things Cas would never tell Dean about himself.

...

_Present_

"What are you doing here." Cas' words were flat.

Dean was watching too closely not to see a flicker of _something_ in his eyes before they shuttered. His heartbeat ticked up and he stepped closer to the bed.

"How are you doing?"

Cas frowned, then stood quickly, whipping around to face him. It startled Dean and he held out his hands as if to steady him, calm him. Cas' face darkened. "How the fuck do you think I am, Dean?"

"I," Dean hesitated. _Goddammit_. He wished suddenly, viciously, for Sam. "I'm sorry, Cas. About Daphne."

Cas flinched, eyes falling immediately to his hands. They were clean, but Dean couldn't help but wonder what Cas saw when he looked at them.

"Can you tell me what happened," Dean inched closer. The room smelled of disinfectant and the bleach they used on the bedding, of sterilized steel and filtered air. But his nose tickled with the familiar warm, spiced scent of _Cas. _His pulse bumped against his throat.

"Is this an official visit then, Detective Winchester?" The words were bitten off, harsh, and it was Dean's turn to flinch.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm, for obvious reasons, not supposed to be here." He hesitated again, willing Cas to meet his gaze. "It's just me and you, Cas."

Cas did look at him then, and Dean felt the full brunt of his former friend's agony and anger, and something else, something deep and long hidden. He didn't blink, forcing himself to remain still, to allow those eyes to cut into him, read him, the way they hadn't in so fucking long.

"It hasn't been me and you in five years, Dean."

Their gaze held.

The door pushed open and a white-clad orderly stepped into the room. He held a plastic bag in his hand. "Excuse me," he said, looking cautiously between the men. Dean thought he could probably cut the tension with a knife.

"Your clothes, Mr. Novak." He set the clear bag on the bed and quickly retreated, pulling the door closed behind him.

Dean opened his mouth but Cas cut him off.

"Get out," he whispered, his eyes on the bag.

Dean could see the blood-stained fabric of a dress shirt cuff through the plastic.

"Cas," he said, reaching for him for the first time, hand hovering hesitant.

"Leave me alone, Dean," Cas said coldly, his voice stronger. "Just," his breath caught and Dean's palms itched with the desire to hold him, at war with a deep-seated resentment and jealousy, feelings Dean thought he had buried a long time ago.

"Just go," Cas finished and turned away.

Dean let his hand fall. He strode out of the room and across the white tiled floor of the exit, across the cool black asphalt of the parking lot, unseeing, uncaring, until he found himself next to the squad car he had snagged from the crime scene at Cas' house. There, he dropped his head in his hands, covering his face. And tried to forget.

...

Dean drove to the precinct on auto-pilot, dropping the keys at the front desk when he sigined in the patrol car. He grimaced when he left through the side door to the parking lot and found Sam leaning against the impala's bumper.

"How was he?" Sam didn't mince words, which Dean usually appreciated. Sometimes though, it was a real trial not to slam his fist in his brother's fat, knowing mouth.

"Peachy, Sam. How do you think?" Dean immediately felt a sharp sting of guilt. Cas had been Sam's friend too; hell, Cas had been Sam's _brother_. Dean wasn't the only one who had lost him when everything went pear-shaped. Cas had been as much a part of Dean and Sam's family as any blood relative, and they had all missed him, in equal measure. Dean sighed and met Sam's concerned gaze. "He wasn't doing so hot when I left."

"She's dead."

Dean nodded wearily. "Yeah, the doc told me." He shifted from one foot to the next, brow furrowing. "Cas didn't kill her."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I know that, Dean." He straightened and clasped a hand to Dean's shoulder, a warm, steadying hold that calmed Dean's skittering nerves. "But it doesn't look good." They were the same words he had spoken earlier and Dean felt the eerie brush of déjà vu.

"I'm going home," Dean mumbled, suddenly exhausted.

"You want to come over to the house? Jess probably saved dinner." Jess, Sam's wife, was an angel, beautiful and sweet. She was a kindergarten teacher, every inch of her suited to her profession.

Dean shook his head. Simple domesticity had the power to break him these days, and tonight he wasn't strong enough to face it. "No, I just want to sleep."

"Lay off the booze." Sam's words were tight, concerned, and it was Dean's turn to roll his eyes.

"Yeah, okay Mom. Thanks."

"I mean it, Dean, you," Sam paused, then squeezed Dean's shoulder again before dropping his hand. "Have a Pepsi-cola or something."

Dean snorted, loving his brother in that instant with a fierceness that surprised him. He swallowed the hot burn of tears in his throat. "It was Nehi grape, you douchebag," he teased, voice gruff.

Sam chuckled. "Then have a Nehi for me, asshole. I'll call you in the morning."

Dean watched in amusement as the lanky fucker contorted himself to fit into his small, environmentally sound, hybrid car and waved tiredly as he pulled out of the lot. When he followed in the Impala a few minutes later, he turned north instead of south, toward his parents'. He really didn't want to face his empty house alone.

Mary met him at the door, eyes sad and wet. Sam must have called ahead. She pulled Dean into a tight embrace, patting him and making him feel six years old again. "How's Cas," she whispered against his neck.

But Dean couldn't speak; he shook his head and held her tighter.

Mary responded by thwacking his back hard a few times, sniffing loudly and giving him her brightest smile. "I saved you some spaghetti."

Dean gave her a watery laugh. "How'd you know I was coming?"

Mary's smile softened and she caressed his cheek with her warm hand. "I knew."

Dean let her lead him to the kitchen, where he ate his mom's homemade spaghetti and allowed her to distract him with family gossip until it was time for bed. Then he crawled between the fresh, clean sheets in the bedroom of his childhood, and tried not to think of dark, messy hair and deep blue eyes, and all the years his heart had lain broken and bleeding.

...


	3. Chapter 3

...

Cas was allowed to be with Daphne before they removed her body to the morgue to await the funeral home. He sat in a hard chair in the empty, silent room, and wished, absurdly, that Dean had stayed.

That he had asked Dean to stay.

He looked away from Daphne's still, pallid form, a white sheet covering her from the neck down. He didn't need to sit beside his dead wife to say his goodbyes, but he had instinctively known that the hospital workers wouldn't understand his reticence, so here he sat, beside her bed, waiting for his cue to leave.

He was ashamed to admit that he hadn't loved her. She had been kind, a good friend and companion over the past few years, but theirs had been no great love affair, and they had both known it, perhaps Daphne most of all.

She had deserved better.

Now Cas was numb, exhausted, and he just wanted to get as far away from this place, this day, as possible. He recognized that his thoughts were becoming fragmented, that he was likely dissociative. He stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the dark parking lot and thought of his wedding day; but even that was wrapped around the ghost of Dean.

Dean.

He had seen him around the city; of course he had seen him. Lawrence wasn't that big, and that goddamn black car was impossible to miss, a shining, vintage missile that aimed straight for Cas' gut whenever he passed it parked on the street. He was conditioned to look for the handsome square jaw of its driver, had _been_ conditioned to do so since he was seventeen years old. It was a habit he had never been able to break.

The last time Cas had stood face to face with Dean, he had tried desperately to sever their connection, a conduit formed when they were children, grown stronger and interlaced more tightly than any bond Cas had ever formed with his own family. Cas had used the only weapon he had available to him at the time: words. And lies. Mostly lies.

He had stared Dean in the eye and told him that he was dead to him.

Cas looked at his grim reflection in the window and knew that if that were true, if Dean were the one lying behind him on a hospital gurney, cold, breathless, his exquisitely handsome face a mask of lifelessness...there would not be enough morphine in the building to dull his pain or stifle his cries.

If it were Dean on that gurney, Cas would follow him, gladly.

Just as he had been following Dean his entire life.

...

_June 29, 1993_

"I'm not staying out there all alone, Dean and I can't believe _you_, of all people, want to."

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned in to punch Cas in the shoulder, hard. "Oh come on, Cas, why not? Are you afraid?" He waggled his eyebrows.

Cas tilted his head. "Do you really want me to respond to that," he asked drily.

Dean scoffed, dismissing Cas' objections with a wave of his hand, knowing Cas would agree with him, he always agreed with him in the end. "We're doing it. We almost have enough points already."

There was a cabin nestled in the heart of the woods, rustic, removed from the rest of the camp. Long ago it had been the only structure on this tract of land, the original owner's dwelling. For a time, it had been a hunter's retreat, then after Camp Chitaqua opened in the 1970s, it had briefly served as the main office, until the larger buildings were constructed closer to the access roads, adjacent to the lake.

Now the cabin was simply a reward; tucked deep in the thick of the pines, away from the prying eyes of adults and counselors. A night in the cabin was offered as an incentive to the tent that earned the most points during each fortnight of camp. Campers could earn points in a variety of ways: completing their assigned chores on time and correctly, winning games, mastering survival techniques, earning badges. Dean had been dying for an overnight in that cabin almost since the first day, which Cas found rather ironic; Dean typically hated being away from the bustling hub of wherever his life was at any given moment_._ Dean was the sun and everything else had a way of revolving around him.

Cas was ambivalent. He liked being alone, had spent enough time hiding from his regular life (albeit, normally with Dean), that he felt no real draw in spending a night removed from everything familiar. If anything, the idea of being essentially trapped in the cabin gave him the creeps, although he wasn't sure he could articulate why. He had been avoiding the woods, after his moment of panic the day previous. He couldn't say exactly what had spooked him, only that he knew instinctively it had come from the woods, and that it hadn't been his imagination, no matter how many times Dean poked fun at him when he tried to explain it.

No, Cas didn't want to spend a night in the dark of the forest, away from the grown ups and the other campers, with no outside contact until morning. But he knew he'd never convince Dean.

"You're a stubborn asshole," he muttered, flopping back on his cot. He covered his eyes with a sticky forearm. He was hot. He could hear a fly buzzing and his skin twitched when he felt the prickle of its legs.

Dean was silent, and Cas knew he was studying him. He held his breath, willing himself not to give in, before sighing in defeat.

Dean interrupted before he could speak. "You should face your fears."

The words were serious, far more serious than expected, and for a split second, Cas felt a whisper of future Dean fall over him, maturity evident in his puberty-deepened voice. He shivered, suddenly chilled.

The feeling passed and Cas dropped his arm, snorting. "That's rich coming from you." He sat up on an elbow, eyebrow cocked. "You really prepared to go traipsing through those _dark, dark_ woods alone at night, hotshot?"

Dean frowned. "Not gonna be alone, am I? I'll be with you." But his eyes fell to his lap where he twisted a loose string on the hem of his shorts.

Cas sighed again. _Goddammit_, he thought. "Fine. _Fine._" He flopped back down. "I'm not fucking holding your hand though, Winchester. I have a reputation to mainta—" His words were cut off by a mouthful of feather pillow.

...

_Present_

Dean jolted awake when his phone rang. He blinked, disoriented, before he remembered that he had fallen asleep in his parents' house. He snatched the phone from the nightstand and answered.

"Winchester." His voice was rough with sleep and he rubbed at his dry mouth. He was alert in an instant, a side effect from years of on-the-job conditioning.

"Dean?"

Dean's heart stopped, then pounded hard, clogging his throat as he sat up in bed. "Cas?"

The phone was silent and Dean glanced down at it to make sure the call hadn't dropped, that he wasn't dreaming. "Are you there?"

"Can you come get me?" Cas' voice was low, quiet and Dean had to strain to hear him.

"Where are you?" Dean was already out of the bed, pulling on his jeans, phone tucked under his chin.

"In front of the hospital. I," Cas paused, but didn't finish the thought.

"I'll be right there. Don't move."

Dean took the time to jot his mom a thank you note, leaving it on the table by the front door before he left, locking the house up tight behind him.

His mind raced as he drove across town, too jittery for the radio, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel. He scanned the circular drive of the hospital's main entrance, and then he spotted him, seated on a bench near an ashtray disguised as a potted tree.

Cas stood when Dean stopped the car next to the bench. Dean leaned over the front seat to unlock the passenger door, quiet as Cas slid into the seat, his lean body cutting a familiar silhouette against the glass of the window. He noted the way the car was suddenly filled, Cas' presence dancing along his skin in awareness. Cas wouldn't meet his eyes, staring instead at the stark white building in front of them.

Dean studied him in the soft lights of the dashboard. He hadn't been in the same room as Cas in nearly five years, yet somehow in the space of a single day he found himself within inches of the man. Twice. To be honest, Dean's heart wasn't equipped for it, and he willed it to slow. When he cleared his throat self-consciously, Cas flinched.

"Do you need a place to stay?" Dean couldn't imagine Cas would go back to that house, not tonight at any rate; it was still an active crime scene. Henrikson would have successfully removed Dean (and probably Sam as well) from involvement; Dean hadn't gotten an update in hours.

Cas glanced at him then, eyes dark and shining. Dean felt, fleetingly, like a sorry excuse for a human being, because when Cas looked at him like that, open and honest and _real, _for the first time in years... Well, it erased a whole hell of a lot, in Dean's mind, and all he wanted to do was cup his stubbled chin and pull him close, push all of the feelings he had bottled up for so long into Cas' mouth.

Instead, he waited, silent.

Cas nodded. "Yeah," he said, eyes falling to the seat between them. "Do you mind?"

Dean tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder but Cas didn't look up again. "No problem, Cas. You know that."

Cas didn't know that, couldn't, but they were both far more than skilled at avoidance than admissions. Dean appearing without question and Cas getting in the car was as close to a truce as they were likely to come, so Cas went with it. He nodded, once, leaning towards the door until Dean's hand fell from his shoulder.

Dean put the car in gear and began to drive, thinking there was no getting around it; he was fucked. Hell, they were both fucked. It felt uneasy, a pattern repeating itself, the loop of his and Cas' life, ground to a misguided halt a long time ago, but now winding up, stumbling forward, unsteady and unstable.

He hoped to God they were ready.

...

Cas stood in Dean's living room, trying to absorb the differences, and the similarities, to the apartment they had shared before. He spotted familiar family photos, Dean's favorite recliner, but most of the furnishings were new, or at least new to Cas. Dean returned with clean sheets and a pillow, a sheepish expression on his face.

"Sorry," he said, smiling tentatively. "I don't have a bed in the spare bedroom. I, uh," he scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. "I never got around to buying one." He gestured to the sofa. "We can make up the couch though."

Cas took the folded pile from him, their fingers brushing in the transfer.

Dean tried not to react and failed miserably, the hot tingle of contact forcing his hand to reach for more, grazing Cas' wrist.

Cas pulled back abruptly, eyes shuttering. "Thanks, I can manage."

Dean took a step back. Then another. "Okay. I'll just be in my room." He paused at the living room door. "Call if you need anything."

Cas was still holding the sheets, staring down at them, frozen.

"Cas?"

His eyes flew to Dean's. "I'll manage, Dean. Good night."

Dean hesitated by the door for another second, but when Cas began to efficiently make up his bedding, he continued down the hall. In the bedroom, he lay down after setting the alarm on his phone, sighing with the knowledge that he would probably not be falling asleep again tonight. Should make tomorrow really interesting.

In the living room, Cas stalled for as long as he could, until exhaustion forced him to climb between the sheets, the smell of _Dean_ surrounding him when he finally laid down his head.

Dean had given him his pillow.

...


	4. Chapter 4

...

Dean must have dozed, because he was jerked awake by the buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He had set it to vibrate earlier, not wanting to wake Cas on the off chance the other man was actually able to sleep. It was a text message from Sam.

_You by God better not be hungover._

Dean smiled sleepily and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Not from booze, he thought, but he still wasn't going to be firing on all pistons today._ Wide awake and right as rain, Sammy, _he answered.

_Sorry I must have the wrong number._

Dean huffed lightly and tossed the phone to the end of the bed, stretching his arm to the floor, feeling for his jeans. The air above the bedding was cold; he had forgotten to turn the heat on again. Cas was probably freezing in the living room.

That thought was enough to force him to his feet, hissing when his bare soles touched cold hardwood. He tugged his jeans into place, shivering while he dug a clean pair of socks and a black t-shirt from his dresser drawers. He padded down the hall as quietly as he could, peering into the living room.

Cas' dark hair was the only thing visible in the shadowy room, the rest of his body huddled under the sheet and thin blanket Dean had given him the night before. Dean sighed. Stubborn bastard could have asked for more blankets. Or turned the heat on himself. Dean left to retrieve the two uppermost covers from his bed and returned to the living room. He carefully floated them over Cas' sleeping form, staring down at him thoughtfully.

He could visualize Cas' face hidden under the worn cotton and wool, the way his brow would furrow deep, even at rest, when he was worried or angry; the way his lips parted with each breath, just enough space that the air would whistle softly, if you listened closely.

The way he would burrow deep under the blankets on cold winter mornings, cupping icy hands around Dean's waist in an effort to keep warm.

Dean closed his eyes tiredly, forcibly pushing old memories back into the recesses of his mind. There were times he had wondered if it might not have been easier if he could just forget all of it, all of Cas. And there were times he had drunk himself into oblivion, seeking just that. But there were just as many counter moments when his brain had refused to let him, replaying tender moments, stolen kisses, the brief period when they were the happiest, and Dean was thankful for it, even when it hurt.

Sometimes it felt like his entire life had revolved around Cas, and he had been living on pause for five long years.

He left the sleeping man and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It was early, not quite six, and he yawned as he watched dark liquid drip into the clear carafe. As long as he was up, he might as well go in early, see what Henrikson had accomplished so far on Daphne's case. Dean was fine with the other man taking over as lead detective; neither Dean nor Sam could have remained on the case from an ethical standpoint. But that didn't mean Dean wasn't going the make damn sure the whole thing was handled using the best police work available, or that he couldn't assist behind the scenes. Henrikson was an all right guy; kind of a douchebag with a power complex, but he had a biting wit that Dean appreciated, and his heart was usually in the right place.

Remembering that he'd left his phone on the end of the bed, and knowing Sam might appear on his doorstep any second if he couldn't get Dean to answer (and Sam was the last person Dean wanted to explain his houseguest to, at least for now), Dean walked quietly down the hall. He drew up short in the bedroom door. So much for his shrewd detective skills.

Cas lay in the center of the bed, burrowed under what looked like every blanket Dean owned.

Dean might have laughed if his heart wasn't breaking.

He jumped when Cas threw the cover off his head.

"Answer your damn phone, it's driving me fucking crazy."

Dean recovered quickly and crossed to the foot of the bed in three long strides, snatching his cell from the mattress. He had two missed calls and six text messages, all from Sam. "Sorry," he muttered. "I thought you were on the couch."

"Your couch sucks."

Cas was staring at the crack in the ceiling when Dean snuck another glance. The scowl he had imagined earlier was solidly in place. Dean frowned as he scrolled through Sam's last three messages, each more urgent than the last. "I'm going to have to go in. Sorry," he added again, without thinking.

"Why do you keep apologizing? Go. Save the world."

The words were cold, laced with sarcasm, and Dean tensed. His nails bit into his palm where he gripped the phone tightly in his hand.

He willed his voice to be unemotional, even. "There's food in the fridge. Help yourself."

He grabbed a random shirt from a hanger in the closet, pulling it on self-consciously, needing the additional layer of protection. He was almost to the door when Cas sat up.

"Dean."

He stopped, closing his eyes and breathing deep. _He could do this. _When he turned back he realized without a doubt that no, actually. He couldn't.

Cas was shirtless, skin pale in the early morning light, and his hair stood up in awkward tufts. His eyes were shadowed, sorrowful as he twisted the sheet in his hands.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean asked, steeling himself. Cas was the living, breathing depiction of early mornings lost but not forgotten. And it stung. His phone began to buzz insistently as Sam called again.

"Thank you," Cas replied quietly. "And I didn't mean that."

Dean nodded once and left, hurrying down the hall and out of the house, needing the safety that distance would provide. Except that as soon as he was in his car and pulling onto his quiet street, dialing Sam with one hand, he wished fiercely that he was back in his house, in his bedroom, losing himself in blue eyes and dark hair and a mountain of warm blankets.

...

Cas listened to the rumble of the Impala's engine as it roared to life before it trailed off as it disappeared down the street. It was familiar and nostalgic, and combined with the smell of _Dean_ in the blankets, and the multitude of button downs and flannel shirts peeking out of the closet, it was simply too much. He was drowning. Sleep was impossible, he knew, so he left the warm confines of the bed. Before he left the bedroom, he borrowed clean underwear and socks from Dean's drawer.

He ignored the box of condoms tucked in with his boxer shorts. _Ribbed for her enjoyment._

Son of a bitch_._

He showered, standing under the strong, pounding stream of hot water until he felt the muscles in his neck relax. Leave it to Dean to never finish furnishing his small house, but to install a superior grade showerhead. The shower itself was extra roomy, too.

He found himself standing in front of Dean's closet, staring at the hangers, reaching out to pinch the smooth fibers between his fingers. He chose a simple, black button down and a pair of worn jeans, trying to ignore the sense of possessiveness he felt when he dressed in Dean's clothes.

In the living room, he flipped to a news program on the television, eating a piece of dry toast as he wandered aimlessly. He picked up a photo of Mary, John and the boys, remembering the day it was taken. It had been late spring, warm and sunny, and they had played baseball in the backyard while John grilled hot dogs. Cas may have taken the photo himself, even. It was rare the childhood memory that didn't include at least one member of the Winchesters.

There were other photos tucked into a bookcase, between the Michael Crichton and Robin Cook and Vonnegut paperbacks. He scanned the other titles, but saw none of his own. Not that he expected to; he wrote true crime stories mostly, and Dean lived in the world of true crime every day. He probably didn't want to read books about it in his spare time, especially not ones written by his former friend. Lover?

In the end, they hadn't had time to properly define their relationship, but Cas knew that was probably for the best.

It had been a nice juxtaposition of their earlier lives though, back when they were young, and probably in love, even when they weren't admitting it yet. Cas had finished his rather useless liberal arts degree and Dean had graduated from the police academy and been newly inducted into homicide. Cas had written his first book based on a rather famous case that Dean worked early in his career.

He had dedicated that book to Dean. But in his head, they were all dedicated to Dean.

After the first one met with some commercial success, Cas had been pleased to discover there actually _was_ some advantage to writing well and having what Dean jokingly referred to as an altogether unholy interest in the research process. His next two books had sold well, and now he was able to pick his own projects. He was occasionally asked to consult on cold cases around the country, and he had become known as something of an expert on serial killer profiling.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He wondered idly how long before the news broke that his wife was the victim of an incredibly violent crime. The press would have a field day, and his editor would be apoplectic (although probably in a perverse, excited manner, not the concerned, gracious mode of a true friend).

As he studied the shelves, a small, blurry photo caught his eye: it was of him, and Dean, arms slung around bare shoulders, smiling faces carefree in the summer sun. His heart clenched tight in his chest. He popped the last bite of toast in his mouth and brushed his fingers clean on his leg. The small gold frame was set to the back of the shelf, nestled on top of a thin volume of poetry. He picked them up, fanning through the pages of the book first. It fell open to an obviously oft-read page, marked with a folded square of wax paper, a preserved four-leaf clover visible through the haze. He read over the words, one verse partially underlined: _So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry._

The photo had been taken the summer they went away to camp; a shaky ill-timed snapshot, Dean's mouth half-open in a laugh, the lake sparkling in the background behind them. Cas tucked the frame back into place on the shelf, but kept the book, running a fingertip along the spine as he straightened.

He wasn't prepared for the memories the photo threatened to dredge up, not yet. And he felt detached as he thought of the day that lay ahead; he would have to go to the funeral home, plan Daphne's service, try to get back into the house to retrieve clothes and toiletries. Call his editor and let him know the research into his next book would be on hold for a while.

Find a place to live for the foreseeable future. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. He could smell Dean's soap on his skin.

His hand fell to his side and he set the book on the side table, by the phone. He should probably call the funeral home. Daphne had had no other family. He would have to make all of the funeral arrangements on his own, which was a blessing he supposed. He didn't think he would have been capable of dealing with distraught relatives, not in his current frame of mind. He didn't want to even consider what he would have to deal with at the police station, sooner rather than later if he had learned anything from living with a cop, albeit a few years removed.

The newscaster's words broke into his thoughts: a nurse had been found in the hospital basement, stabbed to death. One of the bodies awaiting transportation to a local funeral home had been desecrated. "_No further details are being released at this time."_

Cas' blood ran cold.

...

_April 6, 2005_

"What the hell happened here?" Dean's voice was amused as he surveyed the tiny kitchen. It was a disaster. Flour dotted the cabinets and the floor, every pot and pan they owned was out, some filthy and in the sink and others stacked haphazardly on the counters. He sniffed; he thought he could detect pasta amongst the underlying odor of _burnt._

"_Fuck,_ what are you doing home so early?" Cas' hair was standing on end, in even more disarray than normal. He had a thin towel tied at his waist, but it had done little to protect his shirt, which was covered in splotches of red sauce. He was currently running cold water over his hands in the sink.

Dean chuckled and reached over to rub at the white flecks on Cas' temple. "I'm not early. It's after six."

"What?" Cas' eyes flew to the microwave clock. "Fuck fuck fuck. I lost track of time." He smiled weakly, turning off the faucet. "Surprise!"

Dean stepped closer, his movements cautious. They were new to this, being _together_ together, and he still wasn't sure what touches he was allowed. When Cas didn't move away, he tucked himself against his back and dropped his chin to peer over his shoulder. "What did you do to yourself there, Chef Boyardee?"

Cas leaned back, sighing. "Burned my finger on the pasta pot," he said, grinning. He rubbed his cheek against Dean's stubble. "Boiling water is hot. Did you know?"

"Mmm," Dean murmured, kissing his jaw. "I'd heard a rumor." His heart fluttered fast and he wrapped his arms around Cas' midsection. "So what's the occasion?"

Cas tilted his head to give Dean more access to the bare skin of his throat, then he blinked, straightening so fast he almost knocked their heads together. "My book came."

Dean smiled broadly. "What? Where is it?" He reluctantly let go of Cas' waist and gave him a push when he hesitated. "Don't just stand there and let me suck hickeys on your neck, moron. Go get it."

Cas' cheeks were flushed and pink. "Maybe I like you sucking on my neck, hmmm? Did you ever think of that?" His fingers gripped the front of Dean's shirt and pulled him close again. He kissed him lingeringly until Dean moaned.

"Nuh uh," he said against Cas' lips. "Stop distracting me and go get the damn book."

While he waited, Dean started stacking the dishes he could tell were clean on one end of the countertop, smiling at the mess. Cas was most definitely not the cook in this household, but _fuck_ Dean appreciated the effort. He grinned as he thought of ways he could reward him later.

"Okay, before you read it, just know that I probably suck, and it's my first, and," Cas stopped when Dean pressed three fingers to his mouth.

"Cas. Shut up." He kissed him quick, a hard press of lips, before taking the book from him. He held it in his hands, smiling down at it until Cas rolled his eyes, tapping the cover with a knuckle.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"I'm savoring it. Look, your name," Dean said fondly, running his fingers across the embossed letters. He flipped open the cover carefully, and then turned the first pages. He paused on the dedication.

_To D, for all the tomorrows._

Dean bit his lower lip. When his eyes met Cas' they were serious and so full of emotion that Cas might have staggered if Dean hadn't been ready with a firm hand on his hip.

"Thank you," Dean whispered and kissed him again, softly.

Cas sighed against his mouth. "I'm sorry about the initial, I didn't know..." He trailed off and Dean shook his head.

"It's perfect, Cas. Really."

And it was.

...

"Do you remember a day when we weren't together," Dean would ask softly, much later. They lay entwined around each other in bed, a thin sheen of sweat cooling their skin.

"A couple of them," Cas murmured. He pressed his lips to Dean's and curled a hand round his waist.

"I don't." Dean shifted, holding him closer. "And I don't think I want to. Okay?"

"Okay, Dean," Cas whispered and let Dean pull him in again.

...

_Present_

Dean rubbed his temples, a raging migraine forming behind his eyes. "I don't understand. Why would someone kill that nurse and then do," he waved a hand, still somewhat horrified at the damage that had been done to Daphne's corpse. "Do _that_? It doesn't make any sense."

Sam's face was grim. "I don't know. Where is he?"

Dean had already admitted that Cas had called in the early hours from a payphone in the hospital lobby, then spent the night on his couch. He _didn't_ tell Sam that he had left Cas in his bed this morning.

"He's at the house. I'll call, but he probably won't pick up." Dean turned away so he could dial his house phone. He tried not to listen as Henrikson grilled Sam for more information. The detective was pissing Dean off; he had it in his fool head that Cas had been in the morgue, supposedly had an eyewitness that said Cas had been acting _fishy_, but the orderly had conveniently disappeared before Dean was able to interrogate him. Dean was calling bullshit until he saw video proof Cas was in the same vicinity as the slain nurse. And even then he would call bullshit. Cas was no killer.

Cas didn't answer and Dean cursed under his breath. "Henrikson," he barked. Sam was shaking his head at Dean from behind the black man but Dean ignored him.

"Winchester, don't you think you should go on back to the station now and take care of traffic violations or something? This case no longer has anything to do with you." Henrikson smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Unless you want it to. Anything you care to add about your whereabouts last night?"

Dean scowled. "Fuck you, Victor."

"Not my team, Dean. But thanks."

Dean growled, stepping forward and right into Sam, who had strategically placed himself between the two detectives.

"Easy, Dean," Sam said, voice too low for Henrikson to hear. "He knows your lying."

Dean looked sharply at Sam. "I'm not lying," he replied evenly.

Sam nodded his head to the morgue door and Dean followed him out, ignoring the smug look Victor threw their way.

In the stairwell, Sam stopped. "What time did Cas call you?"

Dean frowned and thought back. "I don't know, about one thirty I guess. I was asleep at mom and dad's." He ignored Sam's raised eyebrow. "I came straight to the hospital and he was waiting out front. I picked him up and drove him to my house. End of story."

Sam was listening intently, and Dean could see the wheels turning.

"What? Sam. Come on" he said urgently. "What?"

Sam shook his head. "The orderly says they took Daphne's body down to the morgue about eleven thirty, maybe midnight. Where was Cas for those ninety minutes?"

"Filling out paperwork?" Dean shrugged, dread seeping into his bones.

"Nobody around but the receptionist in the ER at midnight, I checked," Sam said.

"Then he was sitting on that goddamn bench out front trying to figure out where the hell he was going to go or who the hell to call. God, Sam," Dean raked his fingers through his hair as he paced the small landing. "You of all people know I shouldn't be the top person on his emergency phone tree, but who else does he have?"

Sam winced, but it didn't make Dean feel any better to know his words had hit their mark.

"He probably had to work up the nerve to call, and sat out there in the dark wishing like _hell_ he didn't have to," Dean said. He pointed a finger. "That doesn't mean he was down in the fucking basement carving his dead wife's eyeballs from her skull."

"Okay, okay," Sam said, grabbing Dean's index finger and giving it a squeeze. "Henrikson likes Cas for this, Dean. In some twisted weird way, it almost makes a sick kind of sense."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?" But with a sinking sensation, he thought he knew.

"Reclusive writer who specializes in serial killers, spends his days researching the worst kind of humanity, a horrific childhood that no one talks about," he stopped when Dean blanched. "It's all circumstantial. Okay? But if we don't get Cas in there with a solid alibi for this morning, or prints or something to point the finger at another assailant for the nurse, Victor's probably going to haul him in. He can hold Cas for forty-eight and pray something else incriminating turns up in the meantime."

Dean sighed. "Fuck," he said under his breath.

"Fuck," Sam agreed.

...

Cas held the pen in his hand, hovering over a blank sheet of paper. It was rich, really. Here he stood, a successful, published writer and he had been staring at a damned empty legal pad for twenty minutes. After the news broadcast, he had called a cab, intent on disappearing, easing out of Dean's life again without word, like a fog evaporating in the morning sun. Easy, quiet.

He had only gotten as far as the front door before turning back. Dean deserved better, even if it was just a short, handwritten goodbye. Cas didn't know _why_ Dean deserved better, why a couple of hours of couch time and a shared pillow meant he no longer had the strength to walk away, but it did. It was Dean. It had _always_ been Dean.

"Dammit," he sighed and tossed the pen across the table. The doorbell startled him; he had already cancelled his cab. He walked cautiously to the door, peering out of the peephole.

Mary.

His throat tightened. He should have left earlier, when he had had the chance.

"Castiel." Her eyes were sad and kind, her voice gentle and she pulled him into a hug when Cas opened the door.

He let himself be enveloped in her warm scent, familiar and tugging at some place buried deep inside of him, deeper even than his memories of Dean.

"Mary," he whispered against her hair. "How did you find me?"

"I know all of your hiding places, remember," she replied with a sad smile.

Cas let her comfort him, and _God_ he had missed her, this mother he could never fully lay claim to. There had been a time, after he and Dean were over for good, that he had wanted to hate all of them, the Winchesters, for abandoning him; he had lost his entire family in one fell swoop and it had taken a long time to get over that.

"We've missed you," she murmured against his shoulder and he held her tighter before stepping back, wiping at his eyes.

"I've missed all of you." It was the first true statement he'd said in months.

Mary waved him to a seat on the couch. "Have you made any arrangements yet?"

The phone rang before Cas could respond, and he glanced at it but made no move to answer. "I'll let it go through to the answering machine."

"What if it's Dean," Mary asked, ever sensible.

Cas dropped his eyes, sensing he wouldn't be able to get out of it. He picked up the receiver, hesitant. He steeled himself to hear Dean's voice; it would make leaving that much harder, later. And Dean had a way of hearing things, things Cas wanted to leave unsaid.

"Hello?"

"_I didn't realize your affinity for blondes included older women, Castiel. That changes things somewhat."_ The voice was disembodied, a computer-modified dissonance of sounds forming the words.

Cas must have blanched because Mary was on her feet in an instant. "Cas?"

Cas hastily hung up the phone.

"Cas, is everything all right?"

Cas looked at her, this mother who was not his blood, beautiful and blonde and infinitely courageous, and he felt a stark fear he had not known since he had left home many years previous. "Yes." His voice was unsteady and he swallowed. "Yes, sorry. My appointment with the funeral home director, I need to go." He wiped his hands nervously on his jeans.

"Of course," Mary said, but her eyes narrowed on his face, and he knew that she could still read him far too easily.

He ushered her to the door, needing her gone, home, safe. He assured her he would be in touch with the funeral details, rushing but unable to fight a cloistering, rising panic. He closed his eyes when she took his hand firmly in both of hers as they stood on the stoop, squeezing it and repeating her soothing words of comfort. He let himself have that brief moment, knowing he likely wouldn't get another.

"Take care of yourself, Cas," she said softly, hesitating on the step. "Come for dinner this week. I'll make lasagna."

Cas smiled sadly. Mary Winchester's lasagna had been the stuff of his adolescent stomach's dreams. "Deal," he whispered, then bent to kiss her cheek. She smelled like apples and vanilla. "Drive safe."

After she was gone, he quickly went through the house, using a plastic grocery bag to gather a few supplies. He stuffed the book of poetry with the four-leaf clover bookmark into the sack at the last minute. He suspected he was going to need all the luck he could get in the coming days. He had to leave; he had probably already done too much damage, caving to weakness last night when he had involved Dean. He never should have called him.

Dean had been safe.

...


	5. Chapter 5

...

_June 30, 1993_

"Winchester!" Ben's voice carried over the heads of the campers assembled around Dean and Cas as they prepared their young charges for a volleyball rematch. Dean had seven year olds and Cas had eights. Neither had an ounce of babysitting or childcare experience, but such was the life of a camp counselor; it couldn't all be lounging on the lakeshore and cleaning out the latrines. It had still been something of a shock to Dean's system when he first learned he would be responsible for the well-beings of up to ten of the tiniest campers.

"But what are _we_," Dean had gestured between he and Cas, "going to do with a bunch of brats who can't even read yet?"

"Since when do you read?" Cas flipped through his chart of camper identification sheets, trying to memorize faces to names.

"Very funny," Dean said drily. "But seriously. What am I supposed to do with seven-year-old girls? I have, like, nine of them in my group!"

Cas gripped Dean's bicep, holding his gaze with a serious expression. He didn't miss the way Dean tensed, or how his eyes fell to Cas' mouth when he spoke. "_You_ are going to teach them basic wilderness survival techniques, and let them do your chores when Ben and Abigail aren't looking."

Dean licked his lips, the ghost of a smile forming. "Yeah? What else?"

Cas grinned. "And you're going to follow me around so_ I_ can make sure you don't lose one." He dropped his hand and stepped back, effectively breaking the spell that had woven around them. His heart was beating faster than normal and he felt hot, flushed. Cas thought headily that retreat might be his best option. He was teetering on the edge of something, and he wasn't prepared to jump. Not yet.

"Since when are you such an expert on kids?" Dean had called to his back. But he had followed Cas' advice, the way he usually did.

And it turned out to be a lot more fun than either of them had anticipated. Dean was a natural with kids. They responded positively to his innate cheerfulness and frequent lack of respect for authority, in equal measure.

Cas sometimes worried about the tales they would take home to their parents. He might have wished, more than once, that they had used those silly fake Indian names, like some of the other counselors, to identify themselves. At the very least, Cas knew there were some seven year olds who now had more than a passing familiarity with a few choice Winchester curse words.

Cas had done his best to balance Dean's rough edges and crude humor with firm but polite behavioral expectations, and a somewhat atypical exposure to classic fairytales and literature. Story time had become a camp favorite, and the nightly tradition had happened organically, as most things with Dean had a way of doing.

"Dean, Dean! Tell us a story!"

The sevens and eights were gathered around a bonfire, awake long past their normal bedtimes, and Dean and Cas were teaching them the perfect ratio of marshmallow to chocolate to graham cracker. It was a skill they themselves had perfected around summer campfires with John and Mary and Sam.

"A story, huh? Let's see," Dean had hummed, rocking back on his heels. "There once was a man from Nantucket—"

"Dean!" Cas had pointed his sharpened stick at him in warning, but the other boy had laughed, winking at Cas in the firelight and taking a bite of his s'more, a string of white, melted marshmallow dripping down his chin.

Cas took over, deciding they had better leave story time to him, and let Dean teach the finer points of using a pocket knife or baiting a fishing hook. Cas would ensure no one got too bloody or permanently maimed in the process, and occasionally throw in some Greek mythology along the way. The latter was accomplished with much eye rolling from Dean, although Cas didn't fail to note the eldest Winchester's total absorption in Cas' rendition of the Odyssey, to the point he had gotten downright pouty the day it rained and they had to miss their nightly tale around the fire.

Today though, Dean had his small charges primed and hungry for eight-year-old blood. Cas' team had massacred them the day before on the volleyball court.

"Dean Winchester! Now," Ben yelled again. Ben and Abigail were the lead teen counselors, in charge of all the intermediate counselors such as Dean and Cas.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Dean grumbled. "Wait here, Wolverines!" He raised a fist in the air and the seven's repeated the gesture, cheering a chorus of guttural cries.

Cas rolled his eyes. He squatted in the center of his team, waving for them to form a huddle. "Okay, let's reiterate."

"What's reiterate," a redhead in braids scowled.

"He means talk about our plan, dumbass." Pogo was four foot eight and one hundred forty pounds, and he was stuck, developmentally speaking, between bully and bullied. He shoved the little girl in the shoulder to emphasize his point.

"We don't say dumbass," Cas said automatically, narrowing his eyes sternly at the boy. "And we don't push girls."

"Sorry, Captain Novak," Pogo muttered. But he looked ready to throw down on Braids, who herself had mastered the self-satisfied sneer of every librarian Cas had ever known.

"Okay. Now. I suspect they're going to come at us fast and sneaky. We have the advantage of height."

"And weight," Braids said solemnly, side eyeing Pogo.

"I was going to say _brains,_" Cas said pointedly. The girl had the grace to look down meekly, but Cas could see her tongue poking against her cheek, the little minx. _No lack of sass there,_ he smirked to himself. Good. He could use that to his advantage. If there was one thing Dean Winchester could never resist, it was a helpless female.

"This is what we're going to do."

...

It was brutal, a raging battle for every single point and serve, but in the end the true spirit of competition won out and the best team emerged victorious.

"You cheated," Dean grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow with his balled-up t-shirt. "You and that little redheaded faker with her ankle sprain that needed '_immediate attention',_" Dean air quoted.

Cas raised his eyebrows innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And that fat kid sat on my best server!"

"He did not," Cas exclaimed indignantly. "It was an accident. He fell."

"He fell and _just so happened_ to have a panic attack at the same time?So that _my_ _best server _had to lay there trapped underneath Mister Lardo?"

"Panic attacks are no laughing matter, Dean. They can be very serious." Cas had to bite the inside of his cheek, remembering the look on the seven year old's face when he found his foot had been wedged firmly underneath Pogo's fat ass.

"You're a dirty, rotten, lying, cheating ass butt Castiel Novak!"

"Ass butt?" Cas choked, the laughter bubbling up too fast to contain. He chortled, unable to completely dodge Dean's swing, the fist sliding off the edge of his jaw. "Ow, jerkface," he said, rubbing his chin.

"I'm tempted to not let you stay in the cabin with me tonight." Dean was scowling now and Cas smirked.

"Aw, come on, Dean. You know you can't be mad at me forever."

"Yes I can."

"No, you can't. You've never once been mad at me for more than twelve seconds."

"Yeah, well you never formed a gang of vindictive fourth graders just to bully me before!"

"Me," Cas croaked. "Your entire team called me Captain Casshole! The whole game!"

Dean snorted, a quick smile lighting up his handsome features. "I thought of that one myself," he said proudly.

Cas grinned and punched his shoulder lightly. "Admit it, Winchester. You can't live without me."

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't respond and they continued walking along the lake trail, back to the dorms. They needed to pack their gear for the overnight stay in the cabin, and then meet Ben back at the mess hall in forty minutes. The older counselor would then escort them to the cabin and make sure they were settled in tight for the night before leaving them.

Cas tried in vain to beat back the little thrill he was experiencing, especially from his vantage point of walking behind Dean. Dean, who was shirtless, _again, _histanned, muscled back flexing in the late afternoon sun. There was something going on between them, something that had been building even before they had left for camp, something sweet and exciting and in an odd way, familiar.

Cas wished, not for the first time, that he could read Dean's thoughts. He considered himself more well-read than Dean, but Dean was actually no slacker in the academic arena himself; he could write circles around Cas, for example. He sort of wanted Dean to write it all down, what he was thinking, feeling, about Cas, about them, so Cas could analyze it. Dean had a way with words that cut straight to the heart of an issue, excising all flowery exposition and punching bare emotion from the reader in a few lines. It was beautiful, really.

Just one more beautiful thing, to add to the list of beautiful things about Dean Winchester that Cas had begun compiling in his head. _Like a goddamn preteen girl,_ he scoffed to himself. It was true though; there were plenty of admirable qualities about the fifteen year old in front of him. Cas knew it, the staff knew it, hell, the entire female population of camp knew it. The only difference between Cas and them was, Cas had firsthand knowledge that not all of Dean's virtues were visible from the outside. All in all, he might be more than a little happy to have a few hours alone with Dean tonight, uninterrupted. They could find their footing again, fix the awkwardness that had sprung up between them in the past few weeks. And maybe it would settle the butterflies that had started erupting in his stomach whenever Dean looked at him with that slow smile.

"Hey, did you know Bela was flashing her tits behind the tool shed for cigarettes this morning?"

The words were so far out of left field that Cas shook his head to clear it, thinking he had missed some important lead in to the conversation with his musings. "Excuse me?"

Dean turned and began to walk backward, agile and annoyingly attractive, his carefree movements making it hard for Cas to concentrate. "Bela? Hot chick from tent six?"

"I know who Bela is," Cas frowned. And there it was, that Winchester 'charm' he had so aptly forgotten while he waxed poetic about Dean's taut, brown skin in his head.

"Cody said she was lifting her shirt, _no bra,_ one peek per cigarette." Dean leered, wagging his eyebrows. "Cody said there was a line around the shed seven deep."

Cas narrowed his eyes. "That's disgusting."

Dean shrugged, neatly turning back around. "Hey, I might have taken a look, if I had a cigarette."

"Now _you're_ disgusting. She should have more respect, and even if she doesn't, _you_ should have more respect for her."

"Yeah, okay Cas." Dean stopped and waited until Cas was beside him, shoulder to shoulder on the trail. "You're telling me you wouldn't like to get up close and personal with a couple of bare titties like Bela's? Even free of charge?"

"No," Cas said honestly.

"Why not," Dean asked, clearly baffled. "Where else are we gonna get to see 'em?"

"You've already seen plenty, in that pile of skin mags your dad keeps out in the garage in his toolbox."

Dean scoffed. "That's not the same, these were live and in 3-D!" Cas was silent and Dean bumped his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Cas shook his head. "Nothing."

"No, something. What."

Cas glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean had a tell; when he was worried about something he chewed his bottom lip. Cas suspected he had been able to call bullshit on Dean's bluff a thousand times throughout their lives because that lip was being worried through strong, white teeth. The way it was now.

He took a deep breath. "I'm not really interested in boobs, Dean."

They walked in silence for several feet. Cas wondered if it had really been that simple, if he had just turned a corner, left a life that he wouldn't be able to go back to.

"Not at all," Dean finally asked. "Not even Lisa Braeden?" Lisa was the prettiest girl in their class. She had always been the mark Dean used to measure all other girls against.

"Nope," Cas said, suddenly feeling very free. "She's your idea of perfect, not mine." He could feel Dean's eyes on his face, but he wasn't quite ready to meet them yet. They were at their tent now and Cas jogged up the steps. Dean followed, reaching forward quickly to lift the flap, before Cas could grab it. Cas hesitated, the olive canvas casting Dean's face in shadow. He was closer than Cas had realized; he could count the freckles on Dean's cheeks.

"She's not my idea of perfect either," Dean said quietly.

Cas swallowed. Then he ducked under the flap, heart hammering in his throat.

...

_Present_

Cas stood in the living room, and he knew he was stalling. He wished that he had a cell phone, a device he normally loathed, so that he could call Dean later, when he knew he'd be lonely and tired. When he needed the strength Dean's voice had always given him. Not for the first time in his life, Cas realized how fruitless his yearnings were. Dean could follow him, own him, slay him, but Dean could never really have him. No one could.

Cas' fate had been decided years ago, by people and circumstances Dean would never know about. Cas had spent his entire adult life running from it, and part of his childhood too, but that was over. It was time to end this, once and for all.

His traitorous heart tightened; he wished he could see Dean's face one last time. He wished he had given in last night, when he had stood over Dean's bed and watched him sleep. His handsome face had been relaxed, the lines between his brow smoothed, stubble darkening his jaw. Cas wished he had climbed under the sheets and coiled around him, let Dean love him.

He steeled his jaw. This was defeat, he recognized the taste of it, sour in the back of his throat. He needed to be stronger, at least for a while more. He picked up the plastic sack of supplies and looked around the room, making sure not to leave anything behind.

He swore when it hit him: the letter.

"Fuck." The words echoed in the empty room. In the aftermath of finding Daphne, and then everything that had happened in the hospital, the letter in his jacket pocket had been overlooked. The letter and the jacket, both wrapped tight in a sterile plastic hospital bag...on the floorboard of the Impala.

He would have to leave without it. He hoped like hell whatever was inside was vague enough to be indecipherable to anyone but him, but he knew the likelihood of that was slim. It was Dean, and the letter was a link to the biggest secret Cas had ever kept from him.

"Fuck," Cas whispered again, resigned. If Dean had the letter, then Cas had less time than he thought, because no way in hell would Dean let a clue that big go unnoticed.

Cas locked the front door when he left, and he didn't look back.

...

"You need to go home and have Cas come down to the station and give a statement."

Dean and Sam were sitting in an unmarked car in front of the hospital.

"I thought you didn't want me involved in this," Dean said, resting his elbow in the open window, eyes scanning the people as they left the hospital entry, always studying, looking for discrepancies, things that didn't fit the normal space of the time or place. Cas used to call it his cop face.

"Do you want Henrikson to send one of his flunkies to _your house,_ and grab him? Maybe rough him up a little? Because he always hated Cas. You know that."

Dean's jaw tightened and he sat up straight. "He wouldn't do that. Not in my house."

"You so sure about that?" Sam's face was grim and Dean knew he was right.

"Take me back to my car."

...

Dean drove over the speed limit and didn't give a shit. No one would dare pull him over, his car was too recognizable. The dread that had been plaguing him for nearly twenty-four hours was heavy in his gut; something was wrong. He had missed something obvious, too caught up in the past. Too fucking in love with Cas' face, gorgeous and familiar and _right there,_ and he had let something significant, distinct, slip past him.

Dean knew when he pulled into the garage that Cas was gone. He could feel it in his bones.

The house was empty, silent. He made a single pass to the bedroom and back, and noted subtle differences: the couch was cleared, the extra blankets and pillow stacked neatly on a cushion; the kitchen was clean, two coffee cups in the dish drain. There was a single folded slip of paper on the kitchen table and Dean's fists clenched tight before he reached for it.

_Dean,_

_Thank you for everything. I shouldn't have burdened you with this. _

_I waited for what seemed like forever to see you again, and I wish it had been under different circumstances. _

_I never stopped missing you._

_C_

Dean's first instinct was to crumple the paper into a tight ball, frustration swamping him, but he refrained, folding the paper into a neat square and sticking it in his pocket.

_I never stopped missing you._

"Goddammit," Dean swore. He stalked back out to the Impala, Detective Winchester taking over, pushing _Dean_ under, needing the rigid control his professional role would give. He started the car and backed out of the garage. When he paused at the street, his eyes fell on a corner of plastic peeking out from under the passenger seat.

Cas' belongings, from the hospital. He put the car in park, a sharp tingle at the base of his spine, that _thing _that never failed to let him know he was on to something important, vital, in an investigation.

He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from the glove box before he opened the bag. Inside he found only Cas' jacket and dress shirt, the items he had been wearing when he found Daphne. Both belonged at the station, part of evidence; the hospital should have given them to Dean that night, not Cas, but Dean had learned a long time ago that normal people didn't think like cops. Unfortunately. Many cases would have been solved early, saving taxpayers millions of dollars, saving families the trauma of a long, drawn out case, had the regular Joe's who came in contact with murderers in the aftermath of their crimes used a little common sense.

Not that Cas was a murderer. Dean would never believe that, not until he saw Cas standing over a body, bloody knife in hand, and maybe not even then.

He drove to Cas' house, stepping over the crime scene tape and nodding at the CSI unit on the scene. They were meticulously dusting for prints, a pair of them in the foyer and more in the kitchen. He could hear footsteps overhead as well.

"Mr. Novak return yet," he asked the blonde kneeling by the front door.

"Not while I've been here, and I've been here since six a.m.," she said, eyes never leaving her task.

Dean grunted in response. His eyes scanned the living room, noting the perfect symmetry of the decorations on the fireplace mantel, the orderly tidiness of the room itself. Oddly, there were no photos and he thought of his own living room and the multitude of frames scattered over every surface.

Wait.

Dean left hastily, throwing an order over his shoulder to call his cell if Novak showed up. He thought he might have gotten a handwave in return, but he wasn't sure. CSI and homicide weren't exactly chummy, odd since they worked in such close capacity, but true. They didn't go for drinks or hang out after work; each department did their job and relied wholly on the other, and intermingling always felt a little bit incestuous.

Or maybe that was just Dean's antisocial nature at work. Sam liked to say Dean only shared himself with the people who could never really get too close. There was probably some truth to that statement, but Dean never planned to let Sam know he was right. Sam had always been a smug bastard.

He didn't bother parking in the garage, taking the steps two at a time before unlocking his front door. In the living room he walked right up to the bookcase, scanning the shelves.

The photo of him and Cas, aged fifteen, the heat of the summer sun beating down on their bare backs, the very day Dean knew he had fallen hopelessly in love with his best friend, was missing.

So was the book of poetry Cas had given him for his twenty-first birthday.

He sighed in relief. Cas was still gone, and Dean understood instinctively it wasn't just a trip to the grocery store, but it didn't matter because Cas had left a clue. Maybe unintentionally, but then they had been reading each other since they were five years old.

And Cas had just asked Dean to follow him.

...

Dean was lying in the dark, waiting for the clock to advance to some hour past the godforsaken two a.m. it seemed to be stuck on, so he could get up and start the day. He was going after Cas today. When his phone buzzed on the nightstand, his pulse leapt. The screen flashed the unknown caller message.

"Winchester."

For a moment the line was silent and he listened hard for any background sounds that would betray the caller's location.

"Hi."

It was so incongruous that Dean had the hysterical urge to laugh. He had been lying in bed for the better part of three hours trying to sleep off _this_ man's voice and face, needing just a few hour's peace so he could fucking concentrate, _goddammit_, and he could still shatter Dean with a simple _Hi._

"Where are you," he asked, skipping over pleasantries. God willing, he would give Cas all the pleasantries his body could withstand. Just as soon as he found him. He figured he had seconds before Cas hung up, and his mind raced for a way to convince Cas to let Dean help him.

"You know I can't tell you that," Cas said, voice low and tinged with regret.

"Yeah, well, I can't sleep without you." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing like hell he didn't sound like a bitchy lover.

Cas chuckled, and the sound sent a flicker of heat up Dean's spine. "You've been sleeping without me for five years, Dean."

Dean exhaled, slow. "Maybe I'm tired of it."

They sat in the quiet, letting the admission settle over them.

"Dean..." Cas stopped himself, sighing. "I think my ninety seconds are up."

"You want to give me a number so I can reach you?" Dean fought a twinge of panic.

"I'm standing next to a dumpster, babe," Cas said quietly.

Dean closed his eyes, letting the last word roll through him. One word with the power to ease five years of misery.

"Then go buy another one, goddammit, and call me tomorrow," he said gruffly, realizing he had just given consent, which could also be interpreted by those in his line of work as 'aiding and abetting'.

Fuck it. Maybe his desired end result wasn't the same as Henrikson's, but Dean didn't really give a shit about that right now. His priority was Cas, and the more contact he had with him, the more Cas would reveal, until Dean gathered sufficient detail to find him.

Dean's end game was always going to be finding Cas.

The line clicked in Dean's ear and he knew the call had ended.

...


	6. Chapter 6

**_Author's Note: _**_Oh thank you, patient readers...a longer chapter for you! I hope you enjoy it._

...

She was tall, with long, blonde hair that curled around her shoulders, bouncing against her back as she walked around the car. She wasn't the blonde he had been waiting for, far too young and fresh. But he liked the simple irony of this even better.

He hadn't thought of little Sammy Winchester in years.

He had sat, a mere half block from John and Mary Winchester's home, all morning. In such a quiet, homey neighborhood, he was surprised he hadn't been approached yet, a stranger in a strange car, parked for an extended period. But it was a lazy sort of fall day, and perhaps everyone was at work, or simply too busy with life to notice him.

And he had perfected the ability to go unnoticed, so he couldn't lay blame with the sleepy houses and their occupants.

They were simply no match for him.

...

Dean was surprised when he woke up bleary but refreshed a little after ten a.m. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept more than six hours in a row without the assistance of a little (or a lot of) alcohol or Tylenol PM. He dressed and fixed himself and egg and coffee for breakfast before going out to the Impala and retrieving the hospital bag.

He spread the contents on the plastic-covered kitchen table, his hands gloved so as not to taint any evidence. He went through the pockets of the jacket first, pausing on a folded envelope with no return address. The rest of the contents amounted to a dollar and thirty cents in change, a coffee shop receipt (nonfat vanilla latte and a cinnamon cake donate), and heartbreakingly, a snapshot of Dean. It was tucked into the inside pocket of the jacket, the one that buttoned closed, a small compartment most people never used.

The picture was one Cas had taken in their old apartment; Dean was probably twenty-five or six. He had been caught mid-laugh, holding a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a football in the other. Cas had been carrying this photo a long time, apparently, the edges well worn, pale and fading from rubbing against the material of the pocket or from the occasional fingertip.

Dean carried its mate in his wallet.

He tucked the photograph in his pocket but returned all of the other items, save the envelope, to their original placement. He studied the letter carefully. There was something familiar about the handwriting on the front, Cas' name and home address in precise block lettering. When he turned it more into the light from the window to read the postmark, he froze. Cedar Falls, Tennessee, dated two days before Daphne's murder.

Dean stared out of the kitchen window, internal debate raging. He _should_ place the letter back into the pocket he found it in, take the whole bag down to the station and enter it in evidence. Henrikson would have his badge, at the very least, if Dean dirtied up even one sliver of this investigation.

Instead, he boiled a pot of water and steamed the envelope open. He hadn't tampered with a glued flap like this since high school, when Sammy had his first girlfriend and he used to write her the most superfluous, exaggerated love poems Dean had ever read. Dean _might_ have altered a few lines here and there. Just to spice things up for his little brother.

There were shockingly a lot of rhyming phrases that you could pair with _blow me, Jane_.

The flap began to lift and he retrieved a pair of tweezers from the kitchen drawer filled with miscellaneous screwdrivers and nails and other 'junk'. He carefully slid out the sheet of dense, heavy paper and unfolded it, touching only the edges with his gloved fingertips. There were two lines of writing at optical center:

_If the Lamb will not return to the fold,_

_The Wolf is forced to roam._

A curl of golden blonde hair was fastened below the words with a single strip of clear tape. Dean blanched, his cop senses tingling. This was unexpected, new; a path he had not anticipated following.

This was evil. And it was directed at Cas.

He carefully replaced the letter into the envelope and gently pressed the still-damp glue into place. It wouldn't seal completely, but it would be enough, hopefully, that no one would suspect it had been previously opened. Or, if they did, they would assume it had been Cas.

Dean didn't have enough information to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing at this point, and he tamped down the frustration. He studied the postmark again, memories whisking him nearly twenty years into the past.

Cedar Falls.

Camp Chitaqua had been located just outside of Cedar Falls, Tennessee, on a small, rural lakeshore. The summer they were fifteen, he and Cas had taken a bus together, the farthest from home they had ever been, to serve as camp counselors at Chitaqua. Those four weeks had changed the courses of both their lives, forever, and revealed to Dean a love he had never believed existed outside of fairytales and movies.

One night had also taught him true terror.

...

"Going somewhere?"

Dean jumped at the too-close voice, almost bumping his head on the trunk.

"Dammit, Sammy," he grumbled, slamming the lid closed on his bags. He thrust the plastic hospital sack at his brother. "Here."

"What's this," Sam asked, taking the bag from him. His eyes widened when he recognized dried blood on the contents.

"The hospital gave it to Cas when he left. He left it in my car." Dean leaned back against the car, one foot crossing at the ankle. "I went through it already," he said with a hint of defiance.

"Of course you did," Sam chuckled. He held the bag gingerly to the sun, peering at the contents. "What did you take?"

Dean scowled. "Nothing." Goddamn Sam and his goddamn psychic tendency that had always read Dean like a book.

Sam raised a single eyebrow skyward.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. Here." He dug the folded envelope out of his pocket and shoved it at Sam. It was giving him the heebies to have it in his possession anyway; the thing felt rotten with evil and malcontent.

Sam opened it, ignoring Dean's protests to at least put on a pair of gloves first. He paled when he saw the lock of hair.

"What? Sam. You look like you've seen a ghost." Dean straightened, a nervous energy permeating the air around them. He licked his lips. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Sam carefully folded the letter back up and tucked the envelope inside the hospital bag. His face was serious when he looked back at Dean. "I need you to come across town with me. Leave your car here."

Dean shook his head. "Uh uh, little brother. You spill whatever's got you spooked first."

"Where's Cas." But it wasn't a question. Dean hesitated and Sam sighed, rubbing his temple. "I know he's gone, Dean. Henrikson was at the Novak house earlier and they said you had been looking for him yesterday."

"I'm not exactly his keeper, Sam. And he sure as hell doesn't need my permission to leave," Dean retorted obstinately. He didn't want Sam to probe too deep; he never lied to Sammy. It was their cardinal rule. But there was also an incident from their past, his and Cas', that they had agreed to never tell anyone, and that night was somehow tied up in all of _this. _Dean just hadn't sorted out the how and why yet. First, he needed to find Cas.

"Look, just come with me across town. Garth and I found something and I think you need to see it." Sam's face was pleading and Dean sighed.

"Garth? Really?"

Sam shrugged. "You're on _vacation _and I needed a partner."

"Fine," Dean grumbled. "But that skinny little shit better not be using my desk."

Sam didn't answer and Dean threw up his hands in disgust. "That's just great." He yanked open the passenger door.

"On the way you can tell me where you think you're going," Sam added as he folded himself into the driver's seat.

Dean frowned_. Damned know it all brother_.

...

Sam drove to a storage facility behind the railroad tracks. Dean tensed; it was a seedier part of town, and if there was drug activity or violence, it was usually in this general vicinity. It was also the place to be if you didn't want anyone to notice you; everyone in this neighborhood had honed the skill of looking the other way. Sam parked in front of unit one-oh-eight.

Dean's eyes narrowed at the multitude of footprints at the base of the steel roll-up door. "Busy place."

"Yeah, um," Sam said meekly. "Most of those are mine?"

"You're losing your touch, baby brother," Dean smirked.

"Shut up and help me lift the door, wiseass." Sam used a key from his pocket to unlock the padlock.

It took Dean's eyes a minute to adjust to the dim interior, and then another to digest what he was seeing. The ten by ten foot square floor was lined with filing cabinets along two walls; the remaining wall held two five foot folding tables, their surfaces covered with newspaper clippings and what looked to be photo albums or binders. Dean reached in his pocket for the penlight he always carried. As he walked closer to the tables, his eyes widened; there were cork boards hanging on the walls and they were covered with thumb-tacked, grainy photos of women and girls of varying ages. Most seemed to be in their late teens to early thirties, and nearly all of them Dean recognized with a sickening twist in his gut.

They were all missing persons cases.

"Fuck," he exhaled a shaky breath.

"The rent is in Cas' name," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah, I got that," Dean murmured, stepping closer to one of the tables so he could flip open the uppermost binder. More newspaper clippings were taped inside, but also handwritten notes, details from news stories, personal information about the victims, all in a slanting scrawl that Dean knew by heart. One of the pages had a locket taped to it, a tarnished piece of broken jewelry, the letter 'K' engraved on the front of a domed heart.

"He's had this building for almost eight years, Dean. As far back as some of these cases go."

Dean's head whipped around. Eight years...that meant Cas had kept this from him, _had_ _been_ keeping this from him, even when they were together. Dean swallowed hard.

"You got a theory, hotshot?" His voice was gravelly, unsteady. He didn't know if he could stomach what he feared would be Sam's hypothesis.

But Sam surprised him, shaking his head. "I don't know, Dean. I've been hoping you still had him with you, so we could ask him together." He smiled wryly. "I guess that's shot to hell now, huh?"

Dean smiled grimly. "Not quite yet. I'll find him." He switched off the penlight and strode from the building, blinking at the bright noonday sun.

"Dean," Sam started, then stopped, mouth dipping in a frown. "This isn't what it looks like. Is it?"

For the first time in his life, the first time since he was five years old, Dean didn't feel like he knew Cas well enough to be able to answer. Finally he shook his head. "It can't be, Sam." He met Sam's eyes over the hood of the squad car. "It can't be."

...

Sam dropped Dean off in his drive, admonishing him to _be careful,_ and to _call me every two hours._ It had been their longstanding stakeout rule; you make contact every two hours if you weren't together. Period. It had kept them both alive and safe over the years, and it would keep Dean grounded now. Because he was floating, disconnected and scared of what he would find when he finally tracked Cas down.

But at least now he had a starting point: Tennessee.

...

Dean drove through the afternoon and evening, crossing most of Missouri, finally forced to stop for the night in Willow Springs. He ate in a diner across the street from his motel, chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, which made him think of his mom. He dug his cell phone from his pocket while he waited on a slice of apple pie and dialed his parents' number.

"Hello?"

"Dad," Dean said, mouth quirking upward in spite of his current restlessness. "How's it hanging?"

John chuckled. "Not too low, Deano. What's up kid?"

Dean smiled. He supposed he and Sam would always be kids to the old man. "Not much. I'm, uh," he paused. He didn't know how much Sam would have told them, if anything. The piss of it was, they were usually together when they were doing stuff like this. Dean wasn't used to being a solo act. "I'm out of town for a few days. Just thought I'd let you and mom know. See if you'd run by the house and check on it, maybe tomorrow?" It wasn't why he'd called at all, but it had been a spur of the moment thought, and it wouldn't hurt; it might even make them feel more at ease once they found out why he was gone. And they _would_ find out. It was the way of the Winchester family.

"Sure, sure. You going after Cas, then?"

Dean closed his eyes. _I should have known._ "Yeah, Dad, I am," he said quietly. He smiled at the waitress when she slid his pie onto the table.

"You take care of him, and you, you hear me? Don't be doing anything foolish. Call Sammy before you make any rash judgments."

Dean scoffed around his mouthful of apple and cinnamon and flaky crust. "Since when do I make rash judgments?"

John snorted. "Since birth?"

Before Dean could protest, he heard his mother's voice, admonishing John and wresting the phone from his grip.

"Dean?"

Dean warmed instantly at her voice. His mother had that knack; she made everything better, smoother, sweeter, with only a few words and a smile. "Hey, mom."

"Your dad is right, Dean. Call Sam first." She sighed and Dean could hear the worry belying her casual tone. "You should have let Sammy come with you."

"I'll be okay, mom. I'm going to find him and bring him home." He sounded more assured than he felt, but the words bolstered him just the same. Home_. _He was bringing Cas home, and he by God wasn't letting him leave again, not Dean, not the Winchesters. He thought of the warehouse room and its contents and knew, unequivocally, that it wasn't what it appeared to be. This was _his_ Cas.

And they would deal with this together.

...

The motel room was drab and bland, the color scheme a combination of moss greens and golds. It smelled stale, a mixture of cleaning products and worn fibers and filtered air. There was a queen size bed and a small sitting area, a dresser with a large flat screen TV (that Dean coveted quite a lot) and a small balcony that overlooked the parking lot below. Dean drew the blinds on the glass doors of the balcony area and flipped on the TV before plugging in his cell phone on the charger. He was tired; he had driven several hundred miles with only a few stops, and the emotional toll of the past few days were catching up with him too. He thought it probably best if he showered and went to bed, faced tomorrow more rested and with a, hopefully, clearer head.

He had just climbed between the white sheets when his phone buzzed.

"Winchester," he said cautiously. The number was unknown_._

"Did I wake you," Cas asked quietly and Dean's breath left his lungs in a rush.

"No," he said gruffly. "Where are you?" He was already sitting up, reaching for his jeans.

"No, Dean. I just wanted to," Cas paused, sighing. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"I'm coming to get you," Dean said forcefully. "I don't give a shit, Cas. Whatever it is, whatever you think you're hiding, I _know_, okay?"

"Shut up, Dean," Cas urged, voice tinged with anguish and possibly a hint of fear.

"Shut up? No, I won't." Dean was standing now. "I saw the letter, I know—"

"Please. Stop," Cas whispered.

Dean waited. He could sense Cas had another reason for calling, the base of his spine prickling with an ominous sense of foreboding. He bit his tongue to keep the words that wanted to spill forth at bay.

"Where are you," Cas asked quietly.

Dean didn't hesitate. "Comfort Inn in Willow Creek, Missouri. Room 306."

The line went silent. "I wanted to hear your voice too," he said to the dead phone, throwing it across the room in frustration. The back popped off and the battery skittered across the carpet. Dean sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. So much for getting any sleep tonight. He would never be able to stop waiting for a knock on the door.

...

The knock came almost three hours later.

Dean was mindlessly watching an infomercial for cookware, his only other choices the all night news and weather stations, or pointless sitcoms. He wasn't in a comedic mood.

He pulled the door open without looking through the peephole.

Maybe he should have.

Cas' jaw was covered in a day's growth, darkly dangerous, his mouth too full and too fucking feminine; it pissed Dean off. He blocked Cas' path after he slammed the door behind his entry.

"Took you long enough."

Cas cocked an eyebrow. "I've been driving all damn day, Dean. And I just backtracked a hundred and fifty miles."

"Which direction," Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest stubbornly.

Cas chuckled, tiredly. "Guess."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "I don't like chasing you," he muttered. "I never liked chasing you." He dropped his arms and stepped into Cas' personal space.

Cas held steady, eyes warming as they caressed Dean's face. "I don't remember _you_ being the one doing the chasing, Winchester."

Dean gave in to the itch in his palms and slid his hands up Cas' forearms, gripping his elbows before trailing back down to rest at his waist. "Then you have a faulty memory."

Cas smirked and his fingers hesitantly brushed Dean's abdomen. "Maybe so," he said softly, ducking his head until it was _so fucking close_ Dean could almost taste his breath.

"You're wearing my clothes," Dean said roughly, yanking Cas by the hips until they were flush against his own.

"I couldn't exactly go home for my own," Cas said. His mouth hovered just off center of Dean's, and each warm puff of exhalation sent a tick of heat through Dean's gut.

Dean licked his lips, watched Cas' eyes track the movement. "Let me correct that, you're wearing too _many_ of my clothes." He inched his fingers under the hem of Cas' shirt, unsure of where this was going, but _really_ not caring. A deep, intense craving had been weaving its way through his core for two days, and it trumped all other emotion and all common sense.

Tonight, it was just he and Cas. And it had been too long.

Cas leaned in and licked Dean's upper lip.

"_Fuck,_" Dean breathed and crushed their mouths together. It was messy and wet and it hurt when tooth hit lip, but Dean didn't mind, not with Cas kissing the soreness away in apology. His tongue delved deep into Dean's mouth, toying with him, and Dean held on, hands fisted in the fabric of his own button down, now snug around the warm body of _Cas._

"Off," he mumbled around Cas' tongue. "Shirt, off." He tugged at the buttons on the front, his brain misfiring through a haze of lust.

Cas chuckled, a low rumble in the back of his throat and pushed Dean's hands back to his hips before making quick work of the buttons on his shirt and then starting on Dean's. Dean took advantage of the new skin as it appeared, mouth latching onto bare neck, smooth and warm under his tongue. Overwhelmed with the familiar scent and taste of him, Dean moaned, sucking hard on a collarbone.

Cas palmed the back of Dean's head, holding him in place, fingers combing through the short hair at his crown. He worked the last button of Dean's shirt free with his other hand, then snaked inside, smoothing around to his back.

Dean cupped his ass with both hands, grinding them together, hip to knee, and Cas hissed, throwing his head back when Dean found the perfect alignment.

Dean kissed his bared throat, running his teeth along a taut cord there, tugging the shirt from Cas' arms and discarding it on the floor.

"Lie down on the bed," he whispered, pushing Cas back reluctantly.

Cas' cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark. He still had one hand gripped low around Dean's waist. Dean reached down and unbuttoned the top button of Cas' jeans, smiling to himself when the black of Cas' pupils dilated, huge and dark, eclipsing the iris. He nudged him again, fingers slipping into the front of Cas' fly. "On the bed, baby."

Cas obliged, breathing too fast, unsettled but willing to follow Dean's instructions. He backed up a few steps until he was at the edge, reaching a hand out when Dean' didn't follow. "Dean."

Dean sucked in a breath as Cas lay back against the pillows and smiled. "I've imagined you in my bed for a long time, Cas."

"This isn't your bed." Cas' still held one hand out, the other undoing the rest of the buttons on his fly. Dean's eyes followed the movement, groin tightening in anticipation.

"No, but I can pretend right? I'm good at pretending." This last was said with some bitterness and Cas leaned up on an elbow, hand still outstretched.

"Get over here," he murmured.

Dean took his hand and let Cas pull him down on top of him. He nestled on the bed between his legs, ducking his head to kiss him longingly. "I never let anyone in it, not after you left," he whispered and Cas stilled. He cupped Dean's face and held him where he could look into his eyes.

"What?"

Dean let his lids fall closed, unable to handle the haunting, familiar blue, searching him, seeing everything, always. "I couldn't, not in our bed."

Cas wrapped his arms around Dean, fitting them tightly together, lips and chest and hips slotting together, fixed and perfect. "I wanted to be there," Cas admitted softly against Dean's brow. "I'm a fucking terrible excuse for a husband, aren't I? Two days after my wife's murder, I'm in bed with the only person I've ever been in love with." He laughed but the sound was cold, harsh.

Dean held him closer, nuzzling his jaw. He smiled sadly when Cas tilted his head, the gesture so familiar it made him ache. "We're together now, let's not think about the rest for a while, okay?"

He rolled them so they were facing and reached down to ease Cas' jeans from his hips. Cas let him work the garment from his body, feathering his fingers through the short hair at Dean's nape when he dropped his lips to Cas' chest. Dean pushed the jeans to the floor, returning to peel the briefs from Cas' body until he lay naked beside him, skin flushed in the lamplight.

Cas shivered and pulled Dean close. "You too," he whispered tugging at Dean's fly.

Dean swatted his hand away then smoothed his hand down Cas' side, cupping his hip, pushing him to his back. Cas sighed, closing his eyes when Dean's head bent low over his abdomen.

Dean breathed the musky smell of him, sense memory hitting him full force and making his mouth water. His fingers gripped Cas' hip too hard and he could feel the other man flinch. "Sorry, baby," he whispered, leaning over to kiss the smooth skin in apology. "Remembering," he added, the words muffled against the juncture of thigh and hip.

"Remember lower," Cas groaned, one hand urging Dean's head pointedly south.

Dean smiled as he watched Cas' cock twitch, bumping against his jaw when he blew warm breath across it. He had waited a long time for this, and he wanted to savor it; there had been plenty of nights he had lain awake wondering if he would ever get to do this again, ever hold this man in his arms, between his lips, feel him move under him in abandon.

Dean knew the circumstances made this about twelve kinds of wrong, possibly even illegal, but he couldn't seem to find the wherewithal to care. He had been seventeen the first time he had tasted Cas. He was almost twice that now, and as impossible as it seemed, he wanted him even more than he had as a horny, inexperienced teenager.

He licked a long stripe from base to tip and Cas shuddered beneath him.

"_Dean,_" he keened, breath escaping from his lungs on a whine.

"Shh, I've got you," Dean whispered against the velvety skin, rubbing his lips up and down the shaft, holding Cas' hips firmly in place.

Dean could tell Cas was trying not to pull at his hair, and failing, but he didn't mind, and he was smiling when he fit his lips over the tip, suckling him gently down, the delicious sounds coming from Cas' throat urging him on.

Dean was still dressed, and it was making Cas crazy, crazier than the hot, lush mouth on his dick, even. He was overwhelmed by the varying sensations rocketing through him; denim scraping against his bare calves every time Dean thrust aimlessly against the bed covers, seeking his own friction while he worked Cas slowly into a frenzy, the soft cotton of dean's undershirt brushing his thighs with each bob of his head. Dean's calloused fingertips alternately gripped his hips strong enough to bruise and brushed along the base of his cock, withholding release when he could tell Cas was close, and then stroking him until Cas was writhing again, desperate.

"Dean, _God,_ please," Cas groaned. He tugged at the t-shirt at Dean's shoulders, the only thing he could reach, Dean pushing his hands aside whenever he tried to touch anything else. "_Goddammit,_ take this off at least, _please_."

"Mmmm," Dean hummed, mouth tight around him, and Cas' eyes rolled back in his head.

"_Fuck_." And he was gone, over the edge, too long without this man who had possessed him at a cellular level since childhood. The orgasm washed through him in one long, continuous, lazy wave, each pulse of pleasure building on the previous until he sank bonelessly into the mattress, a thick, cottony haze suffusing him. He let Dean nuzzle him until it was too much, oversensitive, and he pushed his head gently away.

Dean gave him one more kiss, right above his pubic bone, a soft lingering brush of lips, before he sat up between Cas' thighs. He peeled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, then made quick work of his fly. Cas thought he had never, and would never, see anything as wholly fucking sexy as Dean Winchester, fly splayed open, chest bare and glowing, crawling up his body with a predatory smile on his face. He settled himself over Cas' body, wiggling his hips against him.

He grinned, mouth hovering two inches above him. "Hi."

Cas smiled lazily back and ruffled his hands through Dean's already sex-mussed hair. "Hi."

Dean kissed him, tongue sweetly licking at his mouth, until Cas opened to him, letting him deepen the kiss. He could feel Dean's hardness against his thigh and he stroked his back, reveling in the muscles as they flexed under his fingertips. _God, _he had missed him.

Dean kissed a path across his cheek, to the bolt of his jaw, unhurried, and Cas let him, turning his head obligingly.

"As soon as I can move again, I plan to return the favor," Cas murmured. His voice was honey smooth and so relaxed it made Dean smile against his throat.

"No hurry, I'm not quite done with you yet."

Cas grinned. "I don't know if I will survive another go just yet. I'm somewhat paralyzed by the last one in case you hadn't noticed."

"Paralyzed by blowjob," Dean teased, tongue tickling at Cas' earlobe. "Is that a recognized medical condition?"

"It is if it's your mouth." Cas whimpered when Dean gently bit the soft dangle of skin at his ear.

"My mouth is _very_ happy right now." Dean ground his hips down again and Cas was amazed to feel a tingle of response in his groin. _Jesus Christ._

"Not as happy as my dick," he said drily. He must have regained control of his limbs because his hands had worked their way down the loosened back of Dean's jeans, palming his ass and guiding his movements against his thigh. "You planning on getting naked any time soon?"

Dean had rested his forehead against Cas' shoulder, reining in the control that teetered on the edge with each stroke of Cas' fingers. "I think your hands have that same paralysis thing, I can't feel my legs."

"You can't feel this," Cas asked, kneading the muscles firmly.

"Uh uh," Dean lied, rubbing his face languidly against Cas' chest.

"How about this." Cas dipped his hands low in Dean's underwear, pushing them and the denim from his hips. Dean lifted up so Cas could work them off.

"I don't know what to tell you," Dean murmured, settling between Cas' thighs again, eyes nearly crossing at the delicious feel of skin on skin. He kicked his legs free of his jeans and boxers.

Cas snuck one hand between them, fingers brushing Dean's hardness until Dean gasped. "You're a fucking liar, Dean Winchester," Cas said, pushing the other man to his back in the center of the bed and climbing on top of him.

"I resent that," Dean protested, voice sexy and low. "I'm a saint. Saint Dean."

"Uh huh," Cas chuckled, mouth trailing over all of the gorgeous, tanned skin now available to him. "Your blowjob skills are heavenly, don't get me wrong, but sainthood requires performing a miracle, if I remember catechism correctly." He had worked his way low enough that his hand and mouth were now mischievously skirting their goal and Dean's hips bucked in frustration.

"_Cas,_" he pleaded breathlessly.

"Hmmm," Cas murmured against the divot of his hipbone. His tongue snuck out to taste the salty tang of his skin, a mixture of sweat and _Dean_, heady and strong and painfully familiar.

"Cas, if you don't get your mouth on my dick _right fucking now,_ and stop licking my goddamn stomach, I'm going to—" he broke off on a deep groan when Cas swallowed him down in one go. "_Fucking Christ almighty._"

And Cas had always, _always_ been too good at this. Dean liked a little tooth, a scary hint of pain with his pleasure sometimes, a technique that only Cas possessed, but maybe that's because his was the mouth that had touched Dean his first time, teenage exploration and abiding affection, friendship that had blossomed into a passion that had never waned. No woman Dean had ever been with had the power to tear him down into tiny pieces of himself the way Cas could.

The way he was doing, right now.

Dean couldn't hold back, couldn't stall the way his body raced toward completion, desperately, achingly good, although he did make a half-hearted attempt. When his hands tried to pull Cas' head up, away, pull that gorgeous mouth back to his own, Cas had just grinned, lips red and damp, and he had laced their fingers together instead, giving Dean something solid to hold onto.

When Dean lay trembling on the bed in the aftermath, Cas lowered his forehead to Dean's hip, and Dean could feel his breath shuddering warmly against his skin.

He could also feel a telltale wetness against his calf, and he smirked tiredly. "Thought you wouldn't survive another go," he teased. He pulled at Cas' underarms until the other man conceded and moved to lay half on top, half beside him at the head of the bed. He kissed him softly. "I didn't even get to help this time."

Cas ducked his head shyly. "You know you get me off too easy, watching you is like being _in_ a fucking porno, Dean. _Goddamn,_ you're beautiful."

Dean snorted, urging Cas' jaw up so he could kiss him again. "I do like to be more of a participant though, it's no fun for me if you just get off on watching me." Which was a lie; Cas coming from simply seeing, causing, Dean's gratification was the hottest thing Dean had ever heard. He only wished he had the strength to act on it. _Later_, he mused, before sobering. Please God, let there be a later.

"The miracle of Saint Dean," Cas breathed into his neck and Dean barked a surprised laugh, which made Cas chuckle, until they were both laughing, rolling tight against one another in the middle of the bed, and for a little while, they were able to forget the world outside and breathe together, in the moment.

...

A bump against the bed woke Dean and he reached to pull Cas close, but his hands found only cold, empty sheets. "Cas," he mumbled, blinking sleepily in the darkness.

A dark shape loomed over him, then a familiar face appeared, a soft smile on Cas' lips before he kissed him. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered.

Dean felt a sharp prick against his neck, his normally prescient instincts failing him for the first time in his life, and he grabbed for Cas as his vision darkened around the edges, vignetting Cas' handsome face.

"Cas, don't do this," he tried to say, but the words were garbled, nonsensical, and he felt himself falling into the blackness.

When he awoke several hours later, with a raging headache and a thick, cottony tongue, Cas was gone.

...


	7. Chapter 7

...

"Tennessee. Want to elaborate?" Sam's voice was wry; he was used to Dean's '_look before you leap'_ methodology.

"Not especially," Dean muttered. He fiddled until he managed to flip the mike over so he could use his new hands-free headset while he drove. Stupid technology that Sam insisted would one day save his life.

"What happened after Cas showed up at the motel. Start at the beginning."

Dean sighed. "Do you want the G-rated version or are you feeling especially kinky this morning, Samantha?"

"Oh God, Dean, seriously," Sam groaned. "You can't keep it in your pants for one day? The guy just lost his wife."

Dean didn't reply, slowing as he pulled into a tollbooth. He rolled down his window and tossed a few coins into the cone-shaped basket.

"Dean." Sam was getting frustrated now; Dean could hear his voice brimming with bitchy irritation. Next thing he knew Sam would be dispensing relationship advice.

"Okay, okay," Dean said soothingly. "I won't scandalize you with my prowess in bed. I would hate for you to feel inadequate."

"_Dean._"

Dean chuckled. "Fine. He called, I tried to explain about the letter, he asked where I was, then showed up a couple hours later. We, ahh, slept." He winced, remembering the pounding headache he woke up with. "Oh and he drugged me, sneaky bastard."

"What do you think he used? You said injection, right?"

Dean could practically hear the wheels turning in Sam's brain. "Yeah. Worked fast. Sodium pentothal?"

"And he would get his hands on that..." Sam hesitated, letting the question hang in the air.

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean sighed again. "But if we're lucky, I'm about two hours from finding out."

"I'm coming."

"Let me find him first, Sam, before we decide to call in the calvary."

"Yeah, because that worked so well last night."

"Sam," Dean started then stopped. Sam was right. He apparently had no willpower and even less common sense when it came to Cas. Even now, head still aching and fucking _pissed_, his first instinct was to find Cas and make sure he was safe. _Then_ kick his ass. And possibly fuck him senseless. Not necessarily in that order.

"Look, Dean," Sam said softly. "You and Cas... I know, okay? I was there, remember?"

Dean smiled sadly. "I remember."

"I'm just saying that you probably aren't going to be using one hundred percent of your available resources up top, if you know what I mean. Cas has always had a way of making you do whatever he wanted."

"That's not true," Dean protested. "I was in charge _plenty_ of times."

"Yeah Dean, you wore the pants all right," Sam huffed a soft laugh.

"I wore the pants," Dean grumbled, shifting uncomfortably on the seat. "I wore the pants a lot."

"Until we know more, until we get this sorted out, I need you to let me help you. At this point we can't really afford for Cas to convince you of something that's going to end up getting him _or_ you hurt."

"Cas would never hurt me." It was automatic, a gut driven response, but Dean believed it wholeheartedly.

"No, but I wonder if he might not make sure you were out of the way, if he was desperate."

Dean had no snappy retort for that. The truth sucked that way. "I'll call you when I get there."

"Wait," Sam urged. "Why Tennessee. What are you not telling me? This is about that summer, isn't it."

But Dean wasn't ready, didn't want the moment he broke his vow of secrecy to take place in a car on a shitty turnpike in northern Tennessee. And maybe a part of him wanted Cas to give his permission, too. "I'll explain it when you get here." He hung up before Sam could protest.

Twenty miles later he received a text message.

**Unknown caller:** _Are you all right?_

Dean took the next exit and found a gas station before he answered. _Fuck you._

It wasn't as satisfying as he would have thought. He got out and started the pump for Super Unleaded.

**Unknown caller: **_So perfectly normal then. _

Dean snorted in spite of himself.

**Unknown caller: **_I need you to go home. Please tell me you're on your way home?_

Dean watched the numbers tick higher on the pump's sale, debating whether or not to answer. "Fuck," he swore under his breath before typing too hard, resulting in a multitude of typos. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck," he complained, erasing and starting over.

"Problems there, handsome?" The voice was sultry, a thick southern twang dripping over the vowels.

Dean glanced up to find five foot two inches of blonde, country bombshell giving him the onceover.

He was _so_ not in the mood.

"Nope. Just my asshole phone's autocorrect standing between me and some amazing makeup sex with my boyfriend," he drawled.

The girl's eyes widened so fast Dean thought her eyeballs might be in danger of popping out and rolling across the parking lot. He smirked to himself, suddenly cheered.

"Well, then, um," she stumbled over the words, taking a step back onto her own side of the gas pump. "I'll just leave you to that then."

"Uh huh," Dean read over his corrected text, still grinning. _You don't get to ask the questions asshole!_

Before he hit send, he carefully backspaced over the word _asshole _and added _babe _in its pace_. _There was a long lag before he got a response.

**Unknown caller: **_Please don't. This is hard enough. I just wanted to know that you were all right. And to say I'm sorry. _

**Dean:** _I'll be there in an hour._

**Unknown caller: **_You don't know where I am. _

_Like hell I don't, _Dean thought. He tossed the phone onto the seat beside him and buckled his seatbelt. He was roughly sixty miles from Camp Chitaqua's front gate.

...

_June 30, 1993_

"So here's the rules: You don't leave the cabin, not even to take a piss, until morning. Don't open the door, don't wander around outside and become bear food, don't set the place on fire, 'cause I ain't coming for you til the sun comes up."

Dean saluted Ben sarcastically and the older teen rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever, Winchester. Enjoy your stay," Ben smirked before slamming the door shut behind him.

Dean turned to Cas with a gleeful expression and slapped his hands together. "Finally. Freedom!"

Cas laughed in spite of himself. He had been uneasy all evening long. There was something he didn't like about this, this whole thing, but he couldn't explain it to Dean. He had brushed aside Cas' concerns with a laugh and a slap on the back. The best Cas could hope for now was a night without sleep, and he decided not to worry about the worst.

"So what do you want to do first?"

"Eat!" Dean rubbed his stomach. He had conned Berta into giving him an entire knapsack full of snack cakes and individual size cereal boxes.

Cas groaned. "Are you kidding me? We _just ate._"

"That was real food," Dean scoffed. "Junk food doesn't count."

Cas raised an eyebrow. "You are like a human trash compactor. But go ahead, eat your cake. I'm going to," he paused. He had no idea what he was going to do. Locked in a cabin alone with Dean. For the next twelve hours. His skin prickled with awareness. He flopped onto the cot against the wall, pulling his legs up Indian style. "I guess I'm gong to sit here and watch you eat cake."

Dean grinned. "You think that's going to be _your_ bed, Novak? I don't think so." There was only one cot in the cabin. "I say we flip for it."

"No," Cas protested. "You always cheat."

"Cheat! How can you cheat at flipping a quarter?" Dean's eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, something relatively new about his handsome face. Cas rather liked it, and he fidgeted on the stretched canvas seat.

"I don't know. I just know that you do. Pick something else."

"Cards?" Dean wagged his eyebrows.

"Cheat."

"I don't cheat at everything, Cas," Dean said drily.

"Yeah, you kind of do," Cas replied, narrowing his gaze pointedly.

Dean chewed his bottom lip. "Truth or dare?"

Cas' nerves ratcheted up. "Okay."

Dean's eyes widened. He had expected Cas to say no. Cas _never_ played truth or dare, it was a longstanding childhood feud. He cleared his throat, dropping to sit at Cas' feet, on top of his sleeping bag. "You first."

Cas sat up straight. He watched Dean thoughtfully. "Truth or dare?"

Dean squirmed. "Truth."

"Have you ever had sex?"

"Cas!"

"Truth or dare, Dean," Cas said calmly.

Dean liked the way Cas' eyes sparkled in the light from the kerosene lamp on the floor beside the cot. He sighed, then winced, hoping Cas hadn't noticed him mooning over his damn face. "Um, define sex."

"Penetration."

"Cas!" Dean's cheeks burned hot.

"Dean."

_Frigid asshole, _Dean thought. "No, all right? No." He thought he saw Cas' shoulders relax ever so slightly and he smiled to himself. "Now you, nosy ass. Truth or dare."

"Truth." The word hung between them, a slight tremor behind it. It was the whole reason they never played this game; Dean instinctively understood that there were things Cas would never tell him, maybe _could_ never tell him.

Dean considered his question options for a moment. "Why haven't I ever stayed overnight at your house?" He held his breath; this was skirting those dangerous issues they never spoke of, and he didn't want to breach the point of no return.

Cas' face was unreadable. He opened his mouth to speak, then licked his lips nervously.

Dean waited, tension building between his shoulder blades.

"Dare," Cas finally whispered, eyes falling to the hands he held clenched in his lap.

Dean exhaled through his nose. _Dammit._ He had seen it, the truth, teetering on the edge of Cas' tongue. Cas _wanted_ to tell Dean the secrets he was forced to keep, and maybe that was enough. Dean guessed it would have to be. "Come down here."

Dean made the decision in a split second. Now or never, he figured, _what the hell_. He had just risked alienating his best friend for life; might as well go ahead and throw all his cards on the table.

Cas hesitated before scooting off the cot and sitting across from Dean on the sleeping bag. "Okay, now what." His heart was thrumming so hard against his chest, he wondered if Dean could hear it.

"I dare you to kiss me."

Cas sucked in a breath. "What?"

Dean, beautiful, gorgeous Dean, lost his bravado in one fell swoop, face falling. Cas grabbed his forearm tight. "Okay," he said hurriedly, soothing. "Okay."

Dean snuck a glance and was surprised to see a flicker of _want_ in Cas' blue eyes_._ It probably matched his own. Cas leaned forward and Dean stopped him, hands on his shoulders. "Wait."

Cas' brow furrowed. "What," he breathed. Dean shivered at the warm, moist air ghosting across his face.

"I want to do it."

"It's my dare," Cas protested petulantly, sitting up straight again.

"And I issued it, so I get to amend it," Dean said teasingly. Now that it was here, _right now, _he wanted to do it. He had imagined doing this for days, maybe weeks. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to give this to Cas. He waited until Cas gave a small nod.

"Don't move," Dean whispered and he scooted closer, leaned his head in until he was buzzing with Cas' nearness, an electrical impulse that danced across his nerve endings.

Cas waited, frozen, and he could feel the tension in the other boy rolling off of him in waves. "Dean," he whispered.

"Shh," Dean shushed him, raising a finger to brush across his eyelids. "Close your eyes. I can't do this if you're watching me."

Cas closed his eyes reluctantly, his last image of green, green iris and sunburned nose. His lips parted when he felt a soft fingertip rub across the seam of his mouth. His sucked in a shallow breath and held it.

"You're so pretty," Dean murmured against his skin, his mouth skirting the edge of his smooth jaw. Then he huffed a laugh, dropping his forehead to Cas' shoulder. "God that sounded gay."

Cas snorted, eyes popping open.

"No peeking," Dean admonished, smoothing a palm across Cas' eyes again.

Cas squirmed on the floor. "Okay, okay, just get on with it, you're killing me here."

"Killing you, huh," Dean whispered again, his voice low and dipping into that recent masculinity that belied his age. It was doing strange things to Cas' stomach. Cas thought he felt the rasp of a tongue along the shell of his ear and he shivered. "You been wanting this, Cas?"

Cas clenched his fists. Now that was a loaded question; if he said yes (which was the truth), would it push Dean away? On the other hand, there was no fucking way in hell he could say no, because if he did and Dean stopped what he was doing, Cas thought he really _might_ physically expire right here on the dirty wooden floor of this ratty old cabin. He settled for a half-truth.

"Maybe," he exhaled. "Maybe I thought about it a time or two." _Or a million._

"Well, I have," Dean said after a pause, tentatively opening his mouth over the hinge of Cas' jaw, sucking gently. He smiled when he felt the fine tremble under Cas' skin. "I can't stop thinking about you, Cas. What have you been doing to me, huh?" Bolder now, he kissed his cheek, then again, inching closer to Cas' mouth.

"I've been putting up with your shit, Winchester," Cas said on a breathless moan, his hands finally tired of waiting and reaching for Dean's t-shirt. He fisted them in the soft folds of fabric, tugging him closer. "Now get over here and seal the deal, asshole."

Dean chuckled, kissing the corner of Cas' mouth. He hesitated, lips tingling, mouth watering, nerves jumping so hard in his stomach he was glad they hadn't eaten that pile of junk food just yet. This was it. Not that he wanted to stop, or was afraid of the consequences, but this was _the moment _they could never walk away from. His eyes roamed over Cas' face, his features finely sculpted and angular and yes, pretty. His heart clenched tight in his chest. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, closing the distance, until he brushed against Cas' lips.

Cas made a soft little sigh then, which made other parts of Dean's anatomy tighten and Dean grinned. He brought one hand up behind Cas' head, holding him in place so he could slant their mouths together more firmly.

Then Cas shocked him by opening up beneath him, his tongue brushing against his lips until Dean's eyes fluttered closed and he yielded, letting Cas into his mouth. And Dean quickly became the pawn to Cas' knight.

Cas kissed back like he had been born to do so, and Dean's head spun. _Dean_ was the one who might have been practicing his kissing technique the past few years, on girls in their class, girls at the bowling alley, girls behind the bleachers at a football game or three. Not Cas. He broke away on a delicious wet sound and licked his lips, breathing heavily.

"Where the fuck did you learn that?" His gut burned with an ugly emotion he thought might be jealousy.

Cas blinked lazily, mouth turned up in a downright sexy grin. "I watch movies, Dean."

"That better be all the experience you've been getting," Dean growled, pulling him in again. He moaned when he felt Cas' fingers inch under his t-shirt, stroking his stomach with light touches. "Do you want to lay down," he asked between hot presses of mouth. And _God, _Dean wanted him to, wanted to lay down with Cas and feel him tight against him, shoulder to knee.

Cas nibbled on his lower lip. "On this dirty old floor," he asked incredulously, voice barely above a whisper. "You're crazy."

And Dean _was_ crazy, crazy with the way Cas' hand was now fully splayed across his abdomen, the way his head had dipped so his mouth could suck against Dean's neck. He pushed Cas back. "Lay down, Cas."

Cas rolled his eyes, cheeks flushed red, still with that half-smile on his face, one Dean had never seen before. He kicked his feet to the side, dropping to his elbows, wincing at the dirty grit against his skin where he missed the edge of the sleeping bag. "At least throw me my sweatshirt so I can put it under my head."

_Fuck fuck fuck, _Dean thought desperately. Cas was the closest thing to sex personified he had ever witnessed and Dean was painfully hard in his shorts. He had know idea what they were doing, how far this was going. He wasn't sure if he cared. This was _Cas,_ and he was wrapped in the warm, peaceful knowledge that it didn't matter what happened or didn't happen tonight, there was tomorrow and the tomorrow after that; he and Cas had already spent a lifetime practicing the way they worked. This wasn't going to change that.

Dean lowered himself over Cas' smaller body, smiling when they fit together. Cas reached up to cup his jaw.

"Dean," he whispered.

Dean ducked his head to kiss him, green eyes locked on blue, no longer afraid for Cas to see him.

A terrified scream tore through the cabin, followed by a loud crash against the door.

Dean jumped back, scrambling to his feet. He looked down, knowing his own face mirrored the look of horror on Cas'. They held their breath. Dean opened his mouth to speak, wincing when someone pounded on the door again.

"Please, _please," _a girl's voice cried. "Let me in, please!"

Cas rolled to his feet and moved to go to the door but Dean stopped him, a hand on his arm. Cas' face was ghostly pale in the lamplight. "Cas, wait."

"_Please, please please, oh God, he's coming!_"

"Dean," Cas said, shoving his hand aside. "Let go."

"Wait," Dean said, forceful, grappling for his arm again. He listened, the girl still banging on the door, her fists weaker now. He could hear her sobbing, muttering, though the words were unintelligible. "It could be a trick."

"A trick? Why?" But Cas hesitated. "You mean like hazing?"

"Yeah," Dean was whispering now, pulling Cas to the opposite side of the cabin, away from the only windows. He doused the kerosene lamp, plunging them into darkness. His fingers tightened around Cas' bicep. "They probably do this to all the kids who stay out here by themselves. To screw with them."

Cas shook his head. He could still hear the girl sobbing pitifully against the door. It felt real. She was no longer knocking, but her fingers were scraping, scratching against the old wood. The sound sent chills down his spine. It made him think of coffins and being buried alive.

He had a sinking, awful feeling that this was _not_ a prank. He pulled Dean's fingers from his arm. "I'm going to open the door."

"No!" Dean wrapped his arms around Cas' waist, pressing his chest against the other boys back and burying his face in his neck. "Don't, please, Cas."

Cas could feel him shaking and understood Dean's assurance was laced with fear. He slid his hands along Dean's forearms, comforting him. "Dean, we have to help her, even if it's just a prank—"

He froze when another scream rent the night air.

"_No, no no no..."_ Her cries were guttural now, desperate and then they heard thrashing at the side of the cabin, footsteps across the forest floor, one pair or more, it was impossible to discern.

A loud thud against the door had them both jumping, parting. Dean yanked Cas behind him, pulling him into the corner of the cabin, crouching low against the cot's metal frame.

The sounds of footsteps, running through the leaves, off the path and across the dense undergrowth, grew distant until they disappeared.

Cas shoved Dean aside and went to the door, ignoring Dean's whispered protests. He opened it cautiously, peering out.

The girl was gone.

The forest was dark and eerily silent.

Cas shut the door, hands shaking as he slid the flimsy hook and eye into place.

"Help me move the table," Dean said, and Cas jumped at his nearness. Together, they slid the rickety old table in front of the door. It wasn't much but it was something.

Cas couldn't help think it might serve to trap them as much as protect them. He shivered, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, too familiar.

Dean pulled him close, rubbing his hands up and down his back. "It was just a trick, Cas, promise." But his voice held a quaver that couldn't mask his fear.

Cas let Dean hold him, feeling far more ancient than his years. He felt the weight of destiny and fate pressing down upon him, knew his time with Dean was probably limited. _So fuck it,_ he thought, and held on tight. Dean's lips brushed against his temple sweetly.

"I'm never going to go to sleep now," Dean whispered wryly and Cas laughed softly into his neck.

"Me neither."

The pulled apart and stared at each other in the darkness for a long moment.

"Maybe we should just play cards?" Dean's mouth quirked up, but Cas could still feel him shivering, or maybe that was his own body still shaking from shock and adrenaline.

They relit the kerosene lamp and positioned their sleeping bags in the middle of the floor, away from the window and door. They played gin rummy and five-card stud long into the night, until they dropped off, slumping against each other, leaning into the shared warmth.

Just before he fell asleep, Cas thought to himself that he wished he could kiss Dean good night, and wondered if he would ever get to.

...

A loud knock at the door jolted them awake. They sat up, Dean's eyes as round as saucers, hair flattened on the side of his head where he had slept pressed into Cas' shoulder.

"Winchester! Novak! Open up." It was Ben. They jumped when he banged loudly on the door again. "Guys!"

His voice was desperate and Cas clambered to his feet after disentangling their legs. He pushed the table aside and threw open the door.

Ben all but crashed into the cabin, his face frantic. And Cas _knew_, knew as the teen counselor bundled them up, belongings haphazardly thrown in a large, black garbage bag, dragging them behind him through the still-dark woods up into the camp parking lot, where children were huddled, crying and bedraggled, dragged from their warm sleeping bags and tents. Parents arrived to clutch them and ferry them home, a thick veneer of fear and chaos overlying the proceedings.

Cas knew: the girl was dead.

...

_Present_

Jess tidied the top of her desk. She could never leave to go home until everything was in its place: the owl-themed planner turned to the correct date, her lesson planning book open to the next day's lessons, all paperwork and pens and office supplies neatly stowed in their proper place. She shut down her computer and turned off the monitor. There were a few pieces of trash littering her floor, the paper from a purple crayon under Timothy's desk making her smile. Timothy liked to color with a sharp point; his mother had already had to purchase a new box of crayons after he sharpened his first box down to nubs. She would have to remind him tomorrow to make sure his trash was thrown away properly.

She straightened the tiny desks and neatened the book boxes in her classroom reading nook, then stood in the middle of the room, surveying her handiwork. Perfect. Ready for a new day of fun and learning in kindergarten.

She never sensed the hand that reached around her face, covering her mouth, until it was too late.

...


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's Note: **__Can I just say that I love you guys? Seriously. You have been too kind to this new fandom writer, and I appreciate your comments, reviews and PMs a whole hell of a lot. I actually wouldn't be doing this without you. Past Present was largely for ME. Lost Souls is for all of you. I hope you enjoy this chapter... _

...

Dean almost missed his turn off the highway. The wooden sign had faded in the Tennessee sun until the rustic lettering announcing the entrance had become illegible. There was a rusty, iron gate across the entrance of Camp Chitaqua, the kind typically used to keep cattle in the field, swinging open and shut on a hinge, heavy and creaking. It was tied to an ancient fence post with a length of rope.

"Secure," Dean muttered sarcastically. He left the Impala running while he untied the bulky knot and swung the gate open. He propped it in place with a broken cement block that seemed to be lying in wait strictly for that purpose.

The road had grown over, unused, but he could see where a recent set of tires had pushed down the weeds and grass that had grown over the trail, so he followed those. He was rewarded when a rental car came into view as he topped the drive and pulled into the gravel parking lot. He shut off the engine and climbed slowly from of the car, leather seat squeaking with his movements. He surveyed the landscape; it was quiet and still, the only motion the lazy circle of a bird overhead.

The old staff headquarters showed signs of having been abandoned long ago, dust obliterating the glass panes of the windows, thick cobwebs visible under the rafters of the porch overhang. The dirt-covered floor of the steps was undisturbed, so Dean ignored that building for the time being; he was looking for something more recently traversed.

He laid a hand on the hood of the rental, but it was cool to the touch; it had been parked for a while, then. His eyes scanned the woods behind the building. Somewhere back there were trails leading to the various campsites, with circles of raised tent platforms, canvas sides and roofs probably long rotted away, with central fire pits serving as the hub for each site. Deeper into the woods, in the opposite direction of the lake, was the settler's cabin. Dean planned to avoid that for the time being.

He walked around the corner of the building, kicking his own path through the dense weeds and grass, the original trail long overgrown. Through the trees ahead, he could see the water of the lake sparkling in the late afternoon sun. The dock, when he reached it, looked sturdy and familiar. He had spent many an afternoon splayed across a thin beach towel here, letting the sun dry the lake water from his sunburned skin, swatting at gnats and sucking popsicles or sharing a glass bottle of grape soda with Cas.

The picture Cas had removed from his living room had been snapped on this very dock, taken with his mother's old Kodak point and shoot by Ben. Ben, who had seemed so old and wise and confident, but in one terrifying hour had become a contemporary, nothing separating them but a couple of years that meant zip in the face of abject fear. Dean watched the carrion bird circle lower, signaling death, and he shivered. He thought of that photo, how badly he had wanted to put his hand around Cas' waist that day, squeeze his lithe body against his own; he hadn't, of course. Ben was there, and the other counselors, and Dean still hadn't known at that point that Cas had been fighting the same feelings. Maybe if he'd known, he would have held him a little tighter, a little closer.

But probably not. He and Cas, in spite of their mutual attraction and the raging teenage desire they had discovered that night in the cabin, wouldn't work out the logistics and details of what it meant to be together for another few years. And even then, it was basically a one night stand borne of frustration and jealousy, both too afraid to commit, too afraid of what it would mean socially and outwardly to the world.

Or at least Dean had been too afraid. Most of their lives he had felt Cas was unafraid of anything at all. Except losing Dean; he had always been fearful of that.

Dean rubbed a hand across his face, melancholy sinking into his bones. His mother had been the one who had inadvertently kept them apart in the beginning. Mary, who loved them each as her sons, who would have given her life for either of them without a second thought.

She had known, the instant she saw them together when they returned from camp. They were uneasy, no longer fitting together so precisely as before, and it had nothing to do with being ripped from camp mid-season and ushered home after the girl, Melanie, had disappeared. Mary watched them, moving together but not, over the next week and then pulled Dean into the kitchen one day, to help her bake cookies for her book club.

She knew she was right the moment Dean agreed without any sort of protest at all; Dean normally loathed being stuck inside on a sunny summer day. But Cas was unusually and conspicuously absent.

Mary measured flour and baking soda into the sifter and handed it to Dean so that he could turn the crank over the mixing bowl. He watched the white substance float into the bowl like snowfall.

"Do you want to tell me about what's going on with you and Cas," she murmured, beating two eggs in a separate bowl, pointedly staring at her hands but feeling Dean tense beside her.

"Nothing's going on." But he was biting his lip when she glanced over, and she smiled to herself. Her boy.

"You know, Dean," she paused to measure the vanilla. "You and Cas have a special bond, I've never seen anything like it. I've always been a little jealous of it." She began to whip the eggs and vanilla into a frothy yellow mixture with a fork.

"Mom," Dean protested quietly, and his cheeks warmed. He snuck a chocolate chip from the open bag. "You were jealous?" His eyes darted to meet hers, flushing again when she nodded.

"Not were, _am._ I don't know if you're old enough to appreciate it, but I think you might be ready." She passed him the egg mixture and a wooden spoon and he carefully stirred the contents into his larger bowl. "The two of you have grown up a lot this year. I've been waiting for you to get a clue."

Dean snorted. "_Mom._" But he was grinning and his shoulders relaxed. His mom _knew._ She knew and she didn't care, maybe even approved. The thought warmed him more than any batch of home baked cookies ever could.

"_Dean,_" she teased. "Love is a special thing, Dean. It's precious and it's never infallible. You have to be careful with it."

The wooden spoon slowed to a stop. Dean waited, understanding she was trying to convey an important message.

"Cas isn't like us, Dean," she said softly. "He wasn't raised surrounded by love and affection." She ruffled his hair and Dean ducked his head in embarrassment. "Maybe that's what drew him to you, I don't know," she murmured. She handed Dean a cup of sugar and he added it to his bowl, giving her a sidelong glance when she snuck a chocolate chip of her own. "Just take care, Dean."

"Okay," he said, clearing his suddenly too tight throat.

Mary dropped a kiss onto his temple. "Everyone's heart is breakable, baby," she continued, turning away to run water into the sink for the dirty dishes. "Cas doesn't have anyone else to fix him, just you." She reached out a hand for the empty bowls and spoons and Dean handed them to her, watching them disappear beneath the soapy foam. "If you break his heart, who's going to patch him up?"

Dean swallowed hard and nodded.

Later as they sat at the table, each with a plate of cookies and a glass of cold milk he tapped the back of her hand with an index finger, too old to clasp her fingers, too young to no longer need to. "Thanks, mom."

Mary smiled. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

...

A fish flopped against the water, breaking into Dean's reverie. He walked back up the dock, following the dirt path toward the mess hall. This building, too, showed signs of abandonment and disrepair. When he passed the back door of the kitchen, he smiled, thinking of Berta, wondering if the old girl was still alive, if she was still handing push pops and rocket popsicles out of her back kitchen door to neighborhood kids somewhere. He sincerely hoped so.

He had looped around to the edge of the forest now, his brief stroll down memory lane almost complete. Having seen no sign of Cas, or anyone else, he knew his next destination would have to be the cabin.

"Into the woods," he murmured, shaking off a sense of foreboding and stepping into the treeline. He hadn't stepped foot in these woods since that morning.

Her name was Melanie Bodine, and she had been fourteen. It was her first year at camp, her first extended stay away from home, away from her family. Her face and name had been in the papers for weeks after Dean and Cas had returned home, and Camp Chitaqua had never reopened, the tragedy of the missing girl leeching the lifeblood from the lakeside home to campers for the previous twenty summers.

Dean had thought of Melanie many times over the years. He had followed her case religiously until it died away, the media losing interest with the next tragedy or political scandal. But Dean didn't forget. He had often lain awake, thinking about that night, when he and Cas had had an opportunity to save a life, to help a girl who had cried and begged at their door.

They had never told anyone. Investigators had interviewed every camper, and both Mary and John had been present for Dean and Cas' interviews. Cas' father was nowhere in sight, but that was per the usual; he had never been wholly present in Cas' life. The morning the FBI agent arrived, Cas had climbed into the treehouse to find Dean huddled in the corner. They hadn't used the treehouse in years.

"I don't want to do this," Dean said quietly when Cas sat down beside him, scooting up close until their thighs touched.

Cas reached over and clasped his hand. "I don't either, but it won't last long. We don't know anything."

"We know she was alive. We know she begged us for help." Dean's breath hitched and he covered his eyes with his free hand.

Cas squeezed his fingers tighter. "We don't have to tell them that."

"What?" Dean's voice was incredulous. "Of course we do. It may help."

"Help what? Help your parents or _hers_, to know that we might have saved her if we had opened that door? How is that helping?"

Dean studied Cas' solemn face. There was fear there and an unusual hesitancy. "So what, we just don't mention it? At all?"

Cas shook his head. "I would prefer we never mention it again," he said sadly. His eyes dropped to his lap and he pulled his hand from Dean's.

"Hey," Dean said softly, reaching over to turn Cas' chin up so he could see into his eyes. "Okay. We don't have to say anything."

Their gaze held and Dean wondered if Cas could see the tears that threatened at the back of his eyelids.

Cas leaned in against him and Dean held his breath when he brushed a kiss against his lips.

"I was gonna do that," he whispered gruffly.

The corner of Cas' mouth lifted. "It was my turn."

Dean kissed him again, a stronger push of mouths, and reached blindly for Cas' hand. He screwed his eyes shut and held on, even after their lips parted and only their foreheads rested against one another.

"We'll say we played cards all night, until Ben got there."

"Which is true," Cas whispered before leaning back.

"Which is true," Dean agreed.

They had sat in the treehouse until John called them down to meet the investigator.

That day, and the night they had spent in the cabin, had changed Dean's life and decided his future. He was a cop because of Melanie Bodine.

The girl who had never been found.

The woods were just as dark and dense as he remembered, worse really, because there were no grounds people to cut back the overgrowth of shrub and hatchlings covering the narrow path. There were no children maintaining a secret trail, a shortcut through the trees to the mess hall. He hoped like hell he didn't get lost out here. God only knew if he had cell service. He reached into his pocket to dig his phone out to check, taking his eyes off the leaf-littered ground at his feet long enough to swipe a thumb across the display screen.

Dean heard the _whir_ and _snap_ a split second before he was wrenched off of his feet, breath knocked out of him as he whipped head over heels, one ankle caught tight in a noose. His body swung erratically with the momentum, suspended, and he scrambled belatedly to catch his phone, frustrated as he watched it disappear into the leaves and debris below.

"Mother of Christ," he groaned in frustration. His ankle had popped with the impact of the snare clamping around it, and it ached, sharp pains that intensified as he struggled against the rope. He attempted to raise himself at the waist, fold up enough to reach his foot and failed, dropping back down red-faced with exertion.

"I probably need to hit the gym a little more often," he muttered, stomach muscles aching. He tensed when he heard a noise in the leaves. He reached for his gun, thankfully still snapped into his hip holster. He might be hanging upside down by one leg but he could still shoot some motherfucker; for that matter, he grinned, he could shoot the rope that held him suspended above the leaves, if he had to. He waited, watching the convex curve of a distant tree-covered hill, trying to shake off the disorientation of having the horizon flipped on its axis. He saw the dark hair first and relaxed as Cas' face came into view.

The fucker was not only dressed in Dean's jeans and shirt, but he was also wearing Dean's jacket, and it pissed him off almost as much as it heated his blood. He hadn't even missed it this morning.

Cas also had a shotgun slung over his shoulder and Dean tensed as he approached.

He stopped about five feet from Dean, studying him. "You do know the meaning of the word _stealth_, right?"

Dean was perplexed with how comfortable Cas looked holding the gun. "You're a writer," he sputtered lamely.

Cas cocked an eyebrow. "And you're a homicide detective and expert tracker." Cas bit the inside of his cheek and Dean had a sneaking suspicion he was trying not to laugh. "So they say."

"Fuck you. Did you do this?" Dean was starting to get dizzy from the rush of blood to his head. He still held his sidearm trained on Cas, mostly out of frustration.

"Nope," Cas said cheerfully. "Actually, I was disabling them. I figured you would poke around the camp first, put off venturing into the woods alone."

Dean grimaced. "I did." Asshole knew him too well.

Cas frowned at that. "Then you drove too fast."

"Fuck, Cas," Dean huffed. "Would you cut me down already? I can't feel my foot."

It was the right thing to say. Cas' expression turned to one of concern and Dean felt a little guilty for the lie. Not guilty enough to hang upside down and let Cas continue to smirk at his predicament though.

Cas followed the line along the limb overhead, locating the trap's crude mechanism at the base of a nearby tree. He was more than a dozen feet away. "No way to let you down gently, Dean," he said. "Tell me when you're ready, and try to roll."

"I know how to fall," Dean muttered under his breath. "_I'm_ a trained professional." The rope went slack and he fell face first into the leaves with a thud, barely missing slamming his head into a moss-covered rock. He rolled to his back and groaned. "Thanks for the warning, asshole."

Cas' form blocked the late afternoon sun, throwing him into silhouette. "Trained professional, huh?" He offered a hand and Dean grasped it, letting him pull him to his feet.

"Shut up," Dean complained, wincing when he put weight on his ankle. Sprained, probably mild. He shook his wrist, bending over to retrieve his gun and his phone. When he turned back, Cas was watching him thoughtfully. "What?"

"Nothing. Déjà vu." Cas was still silhouetted and Dean couldn't read his expression.

Dean stepped forward and roughly pulled Cas to him by the shoulders, mouth claiming his in a hard kiss. Cas stiffened beneath his hands briefly, then relaxed, kissing him back, turning his head to fit their lips more gently together, letting Dean stroke into his mouth with his tongue. They broke apart, and Dean was embarrassed that he was essentially panting. _Motherfucker._

"Don't ever leave like that again," he growled.

Cas kissed him again, holding his face in his hands, pushing regret and apology through his lips, soothing Dean's anger. "I'm sorry," he said against his mouth. "You shouldn't have come." He sighed, resting his cheek against Dean's, breath unsteady. "But I'm glad you're here."

Dean tightened his grip on Cas' waist, unsure of how or when his hands had migrated there, under _his_ favorite jacket, over _his_ favorite shirt. "Yeah, I figured you would be. After you _drugged me,_"he scowled.

"I thought maybe you had forgotten that." Cas looked sheepish, and guilty, which fascinated the miniscule part of Dean that wasn't mad as hell.

"I haven't forgotten." The words were accompanied by a metallic _clink_ and Cas looked down in shock. Dean had cuffed Cas' wrist to his own. "You're under arrest."

"Dean," Cas protested, eyes darkening in anger.

"You have the right to remain silent."

"Dean, you stubborn jackass—"

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney," Dean snapped his holster, wincing again when his ankle objected to the weight he put on it as he turned to leave.

"I'm not going with you, babe." Cas stood stubbornly in place, digging in his heels.

"And to have an attorney present during any questioning." Dean yanked on Cas' arm, exaggerating a limp. He figured he might get a few more minutes play on the sympathy card. He smiled to himself when Cas took a step forward.

"Your ankle."

"If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense." Dean limped forward again. "My ankle is fine."

"Dean," Cas pleaded, then did the one thing that Dean hadn't thought of, wasn't prepared for; he laced their fingers together, bracelets of the handcuffs jangling against one another.

Dean stopped, back to Cas, and breathed deep. _Jesus Christ._

"Dean," Cas said quietly. "Look at me."

"No." Dean didn't dare turn around. He could still taste Cas and it pissed him off. He just wanted to get out of these woods, into the Impala and on the road. In that order.

Cas moved to stand in front of him and Dean rolled his eyes, shifting his weight self-consciously. "I can't leave, Dean. I need to be here to finish something I started a long time ago."

It didn't sound like Cas' voice, it was too sad, too full of emotions Dean couldn't begin to parse through just yet. He wondered, not for the first time, what secrets this man held, had held from him all of their lives.

"Then I'm staying with you."

Cas lifted their joined hands. "Unlock this?"

"Not on your life."

...

Jess woke, cold, shivering. Disoriented, she tried to sit up and discovered her chest was strapped to a bed, like a hospital gurney. She panicked, thrashing, moaning when the sudden movement made her head ache. She looked around frantically; she was moving, in a small, contained metal room. A van or a truck.

Her breath puffed around her in thick white clouds and she shivered again. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she realized that was she was looking at was frozen packages of food, some neatly boxed, others loose and vibrating on the stainless steel shelving unit built into the wall. She was in the back of a refrigeration truck.

A tear leaked from her eye and ran into her ear and she scrubbed it roughly away with a shoulder. She ground her teeth together against the terror threatening to choke her and thought of Sam's handsome face.

Sam would save her.

And in the meantime, she would save herself.

...


	9. Chapter 9

...

Melanie Bodine was fourteen the summer she went to Camp Chitaqua to be a youth counselor. It was her first extended stay away from home. She would be a freshman at Cassock County High School in the fall and was excited that she had made the varsity cheer squad. She had a yellow Labrador retriever named Beau and a younger sister named Lorraine, and she lived in a 1950s-era pink house, the bane of her adolescence. According to an interview with her mother, she had never had a serious boyfriend, and she had just gotten braces the week before camp. She was struggling with the associated lisp, fearing it would prohibit her from joining the choir when school resumed in the fall.

Cas had kept his promise to Dean, and never spoke of Melanie again, but he became obsessed with the girl in the months following her disappearance. He had cut and saved newspaper clippings, scouring them for information about her life. He had sat in the Winchester living room, glued to television coverage of her disappearance; Cas' father refused to allow television in his home.

He had never told Dean about his research; one of the many things he had kept from his best friend that summer. Cas had been torn between the guilt of keeping such a large secret and the feelings blossoming between them. It had made him distant and irritable; the two had bickered more that summer than they ever had before. Sometimes Cas would catch Dean watching him worriedly, chewing his lip until it was torn and bleeding. When it was that bad, Cas would sneak out late in the night and climb the oak tree outside of Dean's window, crawl into bed with him, cuddling close until morning.

Dean would be all right after that, at least for a time.

The steamy encounter they had shared in the cabin did not reoccur, not that summer. Cas had never been sure why; there were still stolen kisses, sweet and chaste, and occasionally Dean would take his hand, especially when they were alone at night.

Looking back, Cas thought maybe he had been too wrapped up in Melanie's story, and maybe Dean had been too worried about the social pitfalls. The kisses would fall away so slowly Cas was later ashamed that he hadn't noticed, hadn't done something to prevent it. One day he had been standing at his locker, waiting for Dean to finish football practice so they could walk home together, when the other boy rounded the far corner of the hall, an arm slung around the slender shoulders of Lisa Braeden. And Cas realized: Dean hadn't kissed him in weeks.

He had stopped climbing the oak tree after that.

On a humid Indian summer afternoon, Cas had used the money he kept hidden in a knothole in the wall behind his dresser and taken a bus to Melanie Bodine's hometown. He had spent hours in the library basement there, combing through the newspaper archives. When he left, he felt as though he knew everything there was to know about the girl's short young life, from the people who knew her best.

Afterward, he had walked across town and sat in a swing in the park across the street from her parents' home, staring at the fading pink vinyl siding until he got a glimpse of their sad, worried faces as they rushed from the house to their car. Cas had read that they were both in their mid-thirties; they looked at least ten years older.

Cas knew all there was to know about the missing girl, including the one thing that no newspaper or television journalist would ever learn, no matter their voracity of investigative skill: Melanie was dead.

The knowledge had eaten him up inside.

He had sat in the swing, waiting for her parents to return, determined to walk across the street, look them in the eye and tell them everything he knew. He had sat for hours, until long past dusk, until the crumpled bus ticket in his pocket had beckoned, the last run of the night looming. Thinking of Dean, somewhere a few towns over, probably in Lisa Braeden's bedroom, somewhere not with Cas. For the rest of his life, Cas would wonder what might have changed if the Bodine's had returned home that night, how all of their lives might have been altered.

Nothing could make up for the fact that he and Dean had potentially had the chance to save Melanie, that they had hesitated, waited too long, and the young girl had faced her killer in the dark, dank forest alone. Nothing would change her final moments, filled with terror and grief and the worst sort of pain. But only Cas had to live with the knowledge that he could have relieved her parents the suffering caused by _not knowing._

The Bodine's would continue to search for Melanie for years. It would destroy their marriage, and many would say later that it had destroyed their lives. Mr. Bodine had died of a heart attack three years ago; Cas had gone to his funeral, sat in the back, head bowed and grief stricken once again for the little girl who would forever remain fourteen.

Mrs. Bodine had clasped his hand when he left the church service, thanked him for coming, another sad stranger in a sea of unfamiliar faces she would see that day. She had given a beautiful eulogy for her ex-husband, extolling his love for his daughter, and explaining that his heart had simply given out. The former spouses had become close friends later in life, but they had both lost so much that love would never find them again.

After the funeral procession had pulled away from the church, Cas had sat, parked on the street in his cold, empty car, and cried. He had driven to a payphone and called Dean's cell phone. He had the number scrawled on a tiny scrap of yellow post it note, tucked into his wallet, not that he would ever need it; he knew the number by heart.

When Dean had answered, Cas had closed his eyes tight, letting the gruff voice roll over him, then quietly hung up.

That same gravelly baritone was currently grumbling about the wet leaves and tangled undergrowth, fighting for traction, the pain in his ankle hampering his efforts to slog through the forest. Cas squeezed his fingers too tight and Dean winced.

"Easy there, Cas, that's my trigger finger. I might need to shoot you later."

"Very funny," Cas said drily, reversing their positions so he could pull Dean up the hill behind him, offering leverage against the increasingly slippery ground. "And you're not left-handed."

"I don't remember the fog being this thick so early," Dean muttered. "Is it the lake?"

"Mmm, probably." Cas stopped, surveying the still woods; it would be far too simple to get disoriented and lose their way, especially with night closing in. He realized that he wouldn't have made it to his target before dark even without Dean's interruption; it had been too many years since he was here, and several of his markers were long gone. He forced himself to relax his shoulders. He could think of much worse ways to spend the night than in the company of Dean. He had already spent far too many nights of his life without that simple pleasure, and he probably wouldn't have many more opportunities, not now. He was struck with a sudden desire to tell him, Dean, everything. He startled the other man when he spun around.

"Whoa," Dean said. When Cas didn't speak he frowned. "Something on your mind, Cas?" Cas fidgeted and Dean stepped closer. When he continued to stare, Dean became nervous. "Hey," he murmured, "you're kinda freaking me out." He stroked his thumb across the back of Cas' hand.

"Sorry," Cas exhaled. "I just. This place."

"I know." Dean squeezed his fingers. He was thankful to be tethered to Cas; he could almost feel the fight or flight response radiating off of the other man. "Let's get out of here and find a place to spend the night. Tomorrow, we'll figure out the rest."

Cas scraped a palm over his mouth and jaw, sighing tiredly. "I'm exhausted," he said quietly.

Dean laid his free hand at his waist hesitantly, feeling the fine tremble under Cas' skin; he was jittery as hell. "Then let's get out of here, okay? Whatever it is, it can wait til morning." He squeezed his hand again. "You've had a terrible couple of days, baby. Let it go for a night, okay?"

Cas studied him in the fading light. Dean was all but admitting that he would come back with him to the woods, help him. The desire to let him was too strong, or maybe Cas was too weak, because he finally nodded.

Dean let out the breath he had been holding. He was more worried than he let on; Cas looked like shit. He was anxious and clearly exhausted. Dean had a moment of hatred for his own uncomfortable and rather shitty capability of forgetting that Cas had just lost his wife. They started to walk again.

"Do you want to talk about Daphne?"

Cas looked over at Dean in surprise. "Why?"

Dean shook his head. "Because it might help? Because that's what you're supposed to do when you're grieving? I don't know, Cas. Take your pick."

They were silent for several yards. "Do you remember the night we met her in that bar?"

Dean grimaced. Of _course_ he remembered. He hadn't known it at the time, but it was the night Cas would meet the person who would one day replace Dean in his life. "Yeah," he mumbled, voice clipped.

"God, I was pissed," Cas murmured. "I think that night was the first time I actually hated you."

"Me? You were the one who _didn't like boobs_," Dean air quoted, Cas' wrist drawn inadvertently into the air with his own. "Sure didn't stop you from feeling up half a dozen pair that night."

"It was St. Patty's Day. Boobs were sort of mandatory," Cas joked, but it fell flat and he sighed. "Maybe I was hoping I had been wrong. _You_ certainly seemed to have an affinity for them."

Dean ground his teeth together. The sting of that night was fresh, even after many years. It had been the first time he had wanted to publicly declare his feelings for Cas, to yank him away from the excited gaggle of girls surrounding him and stake his claim. It had been building inside of Dean, a constant craving, for weeks. He felt every glance Cas sent someone else's way, felt every touch that wasn't on his own skin, and it was burning him up. That night was the first time he had had to lay in bed and listen to Cas have sex in the next room; usually it was the reverse.

And it had almost killed him.

It would be the catalyst that finally brought them together, a sleepy dark head rolling over in the early light of dawn, scowling up at Dean when he yanked the covers from the bed. The girl had squealed, grabbing for the edge of the sheet to cover her nudity.

"Get out," Dean had growled in her direction, low and dangerous, expression black.

"Fuck you, Dean" Cas had protested, reaching to halt the girl's retreat, but she was already pulling her dress over her head and scurrying across the bedroom floor. Cas sat up, raking his hands through his hair. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dean gripped his biceps roughly, hauling him from the bed. Cas stumbled into him as Dean pulled him to his feet. He glowered as they stood nose to nose, wincing at the smell of sex and strange perfume. "Get in the shower."

Cas swallowed, desire spiking hot against his anger. His mouth tilted dangerously close to Dean's, but Dean leaned away. Cas tried to wrench his arms from Dean's grasp, embarrassed, stomach rolling.

His head rattled when Dean shook him hard, once. "I'm not touching you until you get the stench of last night off of you."

Cas' eyes widened, and previous drunken sex or no, his dick twitched with interest.

He came to Dean's bed twenty minutes later, fresh and clean and apologetic, but mostly in love, so in love that his heart nearly pounded from his chest the moment Dean gently laid a hand across his cheek and kissed him. That night had been the first night they had lain together since they were teenagers, and it would be the last night they would sleep apart for many months.

"You weren't wrong," Dean reminded him now. "But in the end you married her anyway." The words held a touch of bitterness, but Dean couldn't help it.

"I don't want to talk about that," Cas said quietly and Dean conceded, mostly because he really didn't want to talk about it either.

"Fine. Then tell me about your room full of research on missing women," he said gruffly. "Or your sudden proclivity with injectible anesthetics."

Cas jerked, startled. "How do you know about the storage building?"

"Sammy," Dean said curtly. "Want to elaborate on why you have information on about three dozen missing women tucked away like that? Cause I gotta tell you, Cas, some of it looked like souvenirs to me."

Cas didn't respond, which worried Dean more than if he had tried to deny it. He jiggled their attached wrists. "So?"

Cas licked his lips and Dean caught the movement from the corner of his eye. "I need to show you something, Dean. It's why I came here, to be sure."

The only sounds were their footsteps through the leaves as Dean digested his words. "Something in these woods."

"Yes," Cas said. "But in the morning. You're right, it'll keep one more night and it's too dark now anyway." They walked for a few more steps before he added quietly, "and I apologized for knocking you out."

"Uh huh," Dean huffed. "We're definitely talking about _that_ tomorrow too." He glanced sidelong at the dark head beside him. "And you ever dose me like that again? Then I don't care _what_ you are to me. Your ass is getting hogtied, thrown in the backseat, and I'm delivering you straight to Henrikson's fucking front door."

Cas flinched. "I _am_ sorry, Dean. I know you don't believe me, hell, macho cop, right?" He held up his wrist, jangling the cuffs together. "You probably _can't_ believe me, but I was trying to protect you."

"Yeah? Protect me from what? From you?" The words held a tinge of incredulousness but Cas just frowned sadly.

"You'll understand soon enough, Dean. I don't want to argue with you."

Dean swallowed a frustrated retort, relieved when he saw the lake through the trees. These woods felt different than they had during that long ago summer; there was darkness here and melancholy. He wondered if it had always been here or if they had brought it with them.

In the parking lot, he walked Cas to the passenger side of the Impala. "Get in," he said, holding the door open and simultaneously unlocking the cuff from his own wrist. The words 'macho cop' were still ringing in his ears and he stubbornly left Cas' cuff in place. _Asshole._

Cas raised an eyebrow. "Trusting me all of the sudden, Detective?" He slid into the passenger seat, comforted by the familiar smell of well-conditioned leather and _Dean._

"Is there a reason I shouldn't," Dean asked solemnly. Cas held his gaze until Dean dropped into the opening and kissed him. He shivered when Cas' fingers found their way to his hip, squeezing lightly. The empty cuff bounced against Dean's thigh. _Macho cop that's hopelessly in love with you, you fucking moron_.

"I want to help you, Cas. Can you at least let me try, please," he whispered against his lips before giving in to the longing in his gut and nibbling along Cas' bottom lip, mouthing as far as he could reach down his jaw. His body protested his awkward stance in the doorway and he had to straighten. His back popped noisily. "Ow."

Cas grabbed for his shirt front, forcing him down once more, and Dean let him, sighing into his mouth.

"Okay, I can make it now," Cas said after a long, sweet moment, pushing him away when he was done, destroying a few of Dean's brain cells and leaving him panting and half hard. Dean chuckled in spite of the circumstances. Cas had always been insatiable, and Dean had always been reserved; it was the opposite of what an outsider may think of their relationship based on their personalities.

Dean had always kind of loved that about them.

They had to drive another twenty miles before they found a decent motel. Dean parked under the awning and jogged around the car to lean into the open passenger window. He unlocked the remaining cuff from Cas' wrist.

"Here, let me get that." He tucked them into his back pocket when he was done.

"Wow, Winchester, who knew you were such a gentleman."

"Shut up," Dean said, ducking his head. Aside from his frustration with Cas, he might have left the cuff on longer than strictly necessary in part because of the incredibly hot images it provoked. But also because he wasn't sure he trusted Cas not to disappear on him again, not yet. "You, uh, want to come in with me to the desk?"

Cas rolled his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. You have the car keys."

"I was with you the first time you hotwired a car, Cas" Dean reminded him wryly.

"Because you _taught_ me to hotwire a car, Detective." There was a hint of humor behind the words and Dean grinned.

"Exactly. So I'm familiar with your M.O."

"Right now my only _M.O._" Cas said testily, "is to take a fucking shower and go to bed." When Dean still hesitated, Cas lifted his head and kissed him firmly on the mouth, lingering long enough he could feel Dean's breathing pattern stutter. "Go get us a room, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, breathless. _Dammit._ He turned and walked into the lobby, a very loud and insistent voice in his head, sounding incredibly like Sam, telling him he was an idiot. He made it as far as the desk before he caved and looked back; Cas was exactly where he left him, dark hair against the headrest, eyes closed.

Dean paid for a double. He tried not to feel flustered when the clerk asked '_one bed or two?' _He had seen her looking surreptitiously at Cas in the circular drive, clearly visible from the front desk. It had been many years since Dean gave a rat's ass about what other people thought of his personal life, but then it had also been quite a few since he had reason to.

She smirked when she handed him two key cards. "Enjoy your stay!"

Dean grunted and strode from the lobby, extremely thankful he had removed the handcuff from Cas' wrist, the same arm now dangling from the open window.

When he got in the driver's side, Cas stirred, blinking sleepily. "Hey," he said, voice scratchy and deep.

Dean's heart did a neat flip. His eyes flicked over to the lobby doors where he could still see the clerk leaning forward to peer through the glass entryway. _What the hell,_ he thought, just before angling across the front seat and cupping the back of Cas' head. Cas' lips parted in surprise an instant before Dean's met them. Dean teased him with a few well-aimed strokes of his tongue before pulling away.

"What was that for," Cas yawned, rolling his neck.

Dean slid back to his side of the car. "No reason. You just looked pretty, sitting there."

Cas snorted. "Pretty?"

Dean grinned. "Yeah. You always were the pretty one." He started the engine and maneuvered his baby into an empty spot in the parking lot.

Cas reached over to pinch Dean's cheek. "I beg to differ."

"Ow," Dean said, rubbing his face. "Well, that's not what the clerk thought. She was ready to jump your sleepy bones." He got out, locking the driver's side door and popping the trunk to retrieve his duffle bag.

Cas waited for him by the bumper. "So what, that was your caveman reflex?"

"Huh?" Dean cocked his head, legitimately confused.

Cas laughed softly. "You, staking your claim." He looked pointedly at the car's interior.

Dean glanced around the parking lot, disconcerted. "Oh, um. No." He refused to meet Cas' eyes. "Of course not."

Cas stepped into his personal space, sliding the duffle's strap from Dean's shoulder. "Because, I'm okay with it, if you were." He slung the bag over his own shoulder and reached a hand around to cup Dean's ass, pulling their bodies flush. "In fact, I've got half a mind to go give Miss Lobby an eyeful right now." He moved against Dean's chest, and just like that, all of Dean's exhaustion and worry were replaced by heat and an aching want.

He peeked at the awning in front of the lobby doors. "Don't think you have to go that far, actually. She's sweeping out front." He smirked down at Cas, who wore a matching grin. Even so, Dean was wholly unprepared when Cas dug his fingers into the hair at his crown and pulled his face down, slanting Dean's mouth so he could kiss the _hell_ out of him.

Dean's head swam. "Fuck, Cas," he breathed.

"That's the general idea," Cas deadpanned. Then promptly ruined it by yawning loudly.

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, you're a real Casanova, sleepyhead. C'mon, let's get you inside."

Dean urged Cas into the shower first. He checked his phone and frowned when he discovered it was dead.

"For the love of Christ," he grumbled; he didn't have a charger. He would have to grab one at a convenience store in the morning; Sammy was probably pissed, waiting for his nightly update. His eyes darted to the bathroom door. Cas' jeans were on the end of the bed and he picked them up, reaching into the pockets, pulling out some change, a gas station receipt, and some lint. No phone. Either Cas had already tossed the last one he had used to call Dean with, or it was in the rental car back at the camp.

Dean was studying the hotel phone instruction placard when Cas emerged from the bathroom, skin flushed and warm, a wave of steam wafting through the door behind him.

"Feel better?" Dean set the phone instructions aside. He wouldn't call Sam with Cas listening in. _He_ may be fucked nine ways to Sunday as far as this investigation was concerned, but he didn't have to take his brother down with him. He would call him in the morning.

Cas nodded, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. "No cell service?"

Dean grunted. "Dead." He stretched, absolutely _not noticing_ the way Cas' eyes latched onto a thin strip of skin that appeared along the top of his jeans when he lifted his arms high overhead. "I'm going to jump in the shower."

He beat a hasty retreat, nerves jumping. _Shit shit shit,_ he groaned to himself. He didn't know what was wrong with him; he felt as nervous as a virgin on prom night. It wasn't like they hadn't just spent the previous two nights together, _hell, _they had even had sex. But that had been angst and worry and anger, mixed with passion and old regrets. This was different; this was them getting too comfortable with each other, slipping into familiar patterns of behavior. This was Dean remembering what it was to love Cas, and being unprepared to go there, at least not yet.

When he left the bathroom after his own long shower, the room was dark and he slipped quietly into the empty double, the one closest to the sliding glass door of the balcony. Cas immediately rolled out of the adjacent bed and slid in beside him.

"Nice try, asshole," he groused sleepily, draping himself over Dean, tucking a knee between Dean's legs.

Dean let himself wrap his arms around Cas' warm back. He nuzzled his still-damp hair. "You need your sleep," he murmured. _And I need to protect my goddamn heart._

"I can't sleep without you."

The words were muffled against his neck, and Dean held him a little tighter. _Me neither,_ he thought. "Night, Cas."

"G'night, Dean."

...

The second the phone registered a charge the next morning, it began to buzz, text message after text message coming through, then the voicemail alert ringing wildly.

All were from Sam.

Dean dialed in and listened, jerking up in the front seat, fear rampant on his face.

"Dean?" Cas' voice was alarmed and he grabbed Dean's arm. "What is it? What happened?"

"Jess," Dean managed to say, heart constricting, pulse beating hard against his throat. "Jess is missing." He jammed his thumb, frantically trying to hang up on his voicemail so he could call Sam. "God, Cas," he said, voice shaky.

Cas' fingers were tight around his forearm, biting into the skin. "Dean, look at me."

The line was ringing in Dean's ear. "Pick up, Sammy," he murmured.

"Dean," Cas urged, both hands clasping Dean's warm skin now. "Melanie Bodine is dead, she died the night we heard her at the cabin door."

Sam's phone went to voicemail and Dean swore under his breath, hanging up and dialing it again. Cas' words finally registered as the line began to ring again. "What do you mean? How could you know that?"

Cas' blue eyes were somber, icy. "Because I buried her."

...


	10. Chapter 10

**_Author's Note:_**_ I feel like I should add a disclaimer here, we're treading lightly into several warning and trigger territories. There may be implied bits of any of the following, especially if you read between the lines: child abuse, torture, non-con. Probably otheres I'm not thinking of, but we are talking about a serial killer and all that might entail, so...proceed with caution. Thank you all for reading and commenting! I honestly wouldn't be brave enough to continue if you weren't such enthusiastic supporters._

_...  
_

_July 1, 1993_

Cas watched the Winchester family car pull away from the camp parking lot with trepidation and no small amount of fear. The twin red taillights glowed, eerily reminiscent of eyes in the early morning darkness, and he shivered.

"Are you ready, Castiel," asked his father.

Cas nodded, picking up his bag. He followed his father to the truck, eyes cautious, movements careful; his father had driven the delivery truck to pick Cas up instead of his gleaming silver Mercedes. Cas swallowed back the nausea forming in his gut, stomach rolling with nerves and bile.

Mary and John Winchester had dropped he and Dean off at camp; Cas had assumed he would be riding home with the Winchesters as well. No one had been more surprised than he was when Ben deposited the two teenagers in the parking lot and Cas had looked up to find the tall, arrogant figure of his father striding purposefully toward him.

He bit his lip, remembering the way he had flinched when his father had gripped his shoulder, and the way John had laid a restraining hand on Mary Winchester's forearm. Cas forcibly relaxed his shoulders, summoning forth a memory, the hot black rubber of an innertube on the lake, floating idly next to Dean and drinking grape soda. He was there again, in his mind, he could hear the buzz of a horsefly, feel the sweat prickling on his upper lip.

The rumble of the truck's engine forced him back into the present, but he was in control now and calmly latched his seatbelt, staring out at the long dirt drive leading away from the camp. His nausea was better, just a small pitch of acid in his stomach.

His father didn't speak again until they were several miles down the old county highway. He slowed the truck and pulled into a short, gravel drive, an old barbwire fence halting further progress. He wore an odd smile and Cas couldn't stop the chill that ran down his spine.

"You're riding in the back, Castiel."

"Father," Cas started, but was silenced by the hard crack of knuckles against his mouth. He felt the blood trickle down his chin where his lip had split. He ignored it, climbing out of the passenger door and walking to the back. He scraped his hand across his face, palm coming away wet and red, and waited silently at the door of the truck.

The nausea was back and Cas knew he was going to vomit. He could hold it in though, long enough for his father to go back to the front, long enough to save him from further wrath. He steeled himself when the door swung open.

The boys in the back blinked at the sudden influx of light.

"Hey there, bro," Gabriel said from the back corner. Cas wanted to believe the words were gentle, understanding.

He threw his bag onto the floor and climbed up after it. He ignored the tarp-covered mound in the center of the enclosed space and walked to the back, skirting his brother Michael's feet where they poked out from underneath the edge of the tarp. He dropped into place beside Gabe.

The back door slammed and the lock snapped into place and moments later they were on the move again.

Michael's eyes were closed, his head leaning against the refrigerated wall, rocking as the truck bumped along the rough road. "So, Castiel. Why don't you tell me all about camp."

Cas glanced quickly at the teenager seated next to him and Gabe shook his head once, frowning. _Play along,_ his eyes were warning him.

He cleared his throat nervously. Michael's dulcet tones were the thing of his nightmares, rich honeyed words that sounded so smoothly sincere and loving, right before they cut into you, flaying you open. "It was interesting, I was a counselor." He very carefully avoided saying it was '_fun_' or in any way pleasant. Cas had learned long ago to keep any happy occurrences to himself, lest Michael or his father teach him the consequences of joy, or worse, force him to witness the destruction of whatever Cas had grown attached to.

Cas had never understood why Dean was allowed to remain in his life, but he had long suspected Mary Winchester was at the root of it. He imagined her face now, her cool green eyes and lightly freckled nose, crinkling when she laughed; the gold of her hair glinting in the backyard summer sun. He longed for her, fiercely, the mother who was not his own. He counted the miles in his head, calculating the minutes until he could sneak away, go back to Dean's family. Pretend he was normal.

He jumped when Michael suddenly flung back the tarp at his feet, revealing the pallid, cold face of a girl, her bright blond hair tangled and dirty, bits of sticks and leaves embedded in the waves. Cas started to shake; he couldn't look away from her eyes, the thin film of death covering them, her mouth frozen mid-scream.

He gagged, falling to his hands and scrambling on his knees to the other corner where he vomited, emptying his stomach. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and he swiped at them, mixing them in the blood on his chin.

"You're cleaning that up," Michael said drolly, flicking the tarp back into place. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

Gabe's hand gripped Cas' thigh tightly when Cas crawled back into place.

As hard as he tried, Cas could no longer remember the smell of the lake or the taste of grape Nehi. So he stared at the lump that represented the girl's head under the black plastic sheeting, wondering who she was, and how long she had cried before they had shown mercy and ended her life.

...

When the truck rolled to a stop, and the back door swung open, Cas realized with a sickening dread that they were not parked in the Novak driveway. They were in the woods at Camp Chitaqua, or near to it. It explained the uncomfortable ride, the lumbering truck swaying to and fro with each bump and rut in the road. Cas had assumed his father was simply torturing him, making the ride home a meandering track, extending it as long as possible.

Michael hopped from the back first, standing beside his father, as tall as the older man now. Cas eyed them warily as he stood.

"You get the girl, Castiel. She was yours, anyway." Michael was laughing, amused at a joke Cas didn't understand.

"Michael," Alistair admonished. "You ruined the surprise." His tone was jovial, eyes sparkling in the midday sun.

Cas swallowed a fresh wave of bile. He was nudged forward by Gabe who bent over the girl's head.

"Get her legs, Cas," he said quietly. "I'll get her head." His hands were gentle as he scooped under the tarp, squatting and waiting for the youngest Novak.

Cas cringed when he reached under the plastic, encountering the smooth, cool flesh of a leg, foot still encased in a sneaker. He steeled himself, grasping under the rigid knees and stood in tandem with Gabe, lifting the body.

She was heavy, deadweight, and he struggled as they made their way to the back of the truck. He jumped to the ground, wincing when her legs hit the edge of the metal floor sharply.

Michael laughed again. "She can't feel it, Cas," he said, and Cas hated the nickname falling casually from those lips. Michael so rarely used it.

He and Gabe stood, awaiting further instructions, the girl suspended between them, the tarp still blessedly covering her. Cas didn't know if he could have maintained consciousness if he had to stare at her death face while he carried her through the woods. The last time he had fainted, he had woken up in a box, the smell of earth all around him.

He forcibly shook the darkness from his mind, hands slick with sweat against the girl's legs. "Where are we taking her?"

Alistair raised his eyebrows. An odd look of pride crossed his face and it sickened Cas. The bastard probably thought he was asserting himself, supporting their actions. Gabe had always been better at playing their games, although granted, he had had more practice.

"Why don't you decide her final resting place, Castiel? She is, as Michael so crudely phrased it, a present to you."

Cas shifted, unable to continue holding her without resting her legs against his hips for leverage. He was throwing these clothes into the incinerator as soon as he got home anyway; he mourned the loss of Dean's Zeppelin t-shirt. He would have to find a way to make it up to him.

He cringed inwardly that he was so fucked up he was worried about a t-shirt while contemplating the burial site of a girl his family had murdered. He imagined Dean's face: laughing, smiling Dean; Dean's lips slanting close to his last night in the cabin, wet from shared kisses, shining where his own tongue had darted out to taste him. If he focused on Dean, he would get through this.

"The police will be all over these woods soon." Cas' voice was dead, as dead as the girl in his arms.

"Then I suggest you hurry and choose her final resting place, son."

Cas met Gabe's eyes over the tarp. "There's a valley, about fifty yards to the east."

Gabe nodded and they began the slow trek.

The valley Cas spoke of was encircled by tall pines, shaded from the brightness of the summer sun yet the light still filtered through the boughs overhead, rays touching the ground like the fingers of God.

"Beautiful," Alistair murmured approvingly. He clasped Cas' shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "What a wonderful choice."

Cas hated that his father's words did not repulse him, not nearly enough. His arms were aching, trembling from exertion when he and Gabe laid the body gently to the pine needle-covered ground. Michael had a shovel slung across his shoulders and he handed it to Cas, but Alistair intercepted it.

Cas noted the frustration that flickered across Michael's darkly handsome face. It was there and gone in an instant. He shifted uncomfortably; he would need to tread very lightly. The precarious balance of power in their family dynamic could not shift. He only knew how to survive in the current status quo.

"Castiel deserves the full presentation of his gift, Michael," Alistair said softly. He had a beautiful singing voice, a rich baritone that could rise joyfully in song, bouncing from the rafters on the old hymns he loved so dearly. The irony sickened Cas.

Alistair nodded to Michael, clasping his hands in front of him and smiling beatifically down at Cas.

Michael hesitated, glancing sidelong at his father, the hint of irritation still evident in his coffee eyes. "I picked her for you, Castiel. There were so many to choose from, too," he murmured. He warmed to his story, olive complexion flushing, stimulated with the recollection. "But she was special, sweet. I could tell she liked you, too. She followed you a few times around the camp, trying to get your attention."

Cas clamped his teeth together, willing himself not to react. Michael would like nothing better than for him to fall apart right now, assuring the eldest Novak of his gruesome place as favored son. He scoured his mind for memories of the girl, but he could only see Dean's face. It had been three weeks of bliss, days spent unaccompanied by real life, and Cas had reveled in the freedom. He was horrified that his myopic focus may have contributed to this girl's demise.

"Why did you kill her," Cas asked, surprising all three of his companions. But it was a valid question; they typically kept their victims for days, sometimes weeks. Michael had had the girl less than a night.

"That was your fault, baby brother," Michael chuckled. "You and that Neanderthal whose side you never leave."

"Don't you dare speak of Dean." Cas' hands balled into fists and a white-hot fury lanced through him, sickened with sudden terror.

"Easy, Castiel," Alistair soothed, stepping between his sons. "Let Michael finish."

Cas forced himself to relax; he could feel Gabe buzzing with nerves beside him. He darted a quick glance to his face but found he couldn't decipher the message in his eyes.

Michael smiled down at him, and Castiel wished, not for the first time, that he would hurry up and grow, grow taller than this sadistic son of a bitch standing in front of him, so he could kill him.

He supposed that actually made him one of the family. He would cry if he had any tears left.

"As I was saying, that is your fault. I personally would have been _very_ pleased to keep little Melanie Bodine, that's her name, by the way, around for a while. She was most definitely a sweet piece of meat."

"Shut up," Cas shouted, rushing forward and shoving Michael hard. The taller boy stumbled backward, caught off guard, but he laughed uproariously and Cas whirled away from him, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair in anguish.

"Castiel," Alistair said sharply and Cas sucked in lungfuls of air, chest heaving. "Melanie was a beautiful child, a blessed gift to you from your brothers and I. You will not be disrespectful of that overture."

"Yes, father," Cas whispered.

"We intended for her to be your first, the angel that brought our lamb into the fold at last." Alistair laid a hand gently between Cas' shoulder blades. "Unfortunately, your friend Mr. Winchester has a way of insinuating himself into our lives and," he paused, searching for the right words. "Well, let's just say he has a way of muddling my best laid plans."

Michael stepped in front of Cas, holding out the shovel once more. "When you became unavailable to assist me last night due to your little foray into the woods with your boyfriend," he sighed dramatically, "well, I was forced to take matters into my own hands."

Cas heard the subtle emphasis on the word _boyfriend_ and winced inwardly, hoping his father did not catch the insinuation. He fidgeted anxiously, wondering if Michael had been at the window, what he might have seen.

"I did have a bit of a play with her first though." Michael's grin was malevolent and it sent chills down Cas' spine. "_God,_ it was divine intervention that she nearly stumbled across you all on her own."

"Do not blaspheme," Alistair ordered coldly.

"Sorry, father," Michael bowed his head once in deference.

Cas was dizzy, the sick knowledge of his brother's twisted game with the defenseless girl tearing into his heart, pervading his mind with images he would never be able to escape.

"You could have saved, her, you know," Michael mused. "I wouldn't have interfered." He leaned close to Cas' head, his lips whispering the words against his temple. "You should have opened the door."

Cas closed his eyes. _His fault._

Alistair's hand rubbed soothing circles on Cas' back. "And now it's time for you to lay her to rest. You failed her in life, it is your duty, Castiel."

Cas nodded numbly, stepping away from his father and his brother, taking the shovel from Michael's hands. He walked to the center of the clearing and bowed his head. _I'm sorry, _he prayed, as he began to dig.

As he stood in the depths of the hole forty minutes later, arms held up to receive her body, Alistair knelt beside the mound of shoveled earth and produced a long knife. Cas cringed when his father sawed a large lock of blonde hair from the girl's head and handed it to him. "A souvenir for you, Castiel. To remember your mistakes."

Cas gripped the long curl tight, then shoved it into the front pocket of his shorts without responding. Gabe jumped into the hole beside him and helped him lower Melanie's body into the ground.

It took Cas another twenty minutes to cover her with dirt. Before he shoveled the first scoop, he peeled his grimy t-shirt over his head and used it to gently cover her face.

Michael snorted above him. "Real classy, Cas."

The faded Led Zeppelin logo mocked Cas as he began to work. He didn't care; he had no love for this girl, and would gladly accept the guilt of not noticing her, especially if Michael's words were truth. She had not deserved this and inadvertently or not, Cas had played a role in her death. He _did,_ however, love Dean, with a violent surety that belied his age, and sending her to her final place of rest with a piece of something imbued with that love was the best that Cas could give her now.

His father let him ride in the front on the way home. He even went through a drive through at a McDonald's and ordered Cas a cheeseburger meal, a sick testament to his newfound delight in his youngest son; he never allowed them to eat fast food.

Cas was not hungry, thought he may never truly be hungry again, but he ate every bite, too tired to withstand the anger his refusal would surely invoke. When he snuck out of his bedroom window hours later and shimmied down the lattice, his stomach was still unsettled.

He pushed Dean's window up and fell through the opening, into the strong arms waiting there, Dean having jumped from his bed the moment he heard Cas outside.

"Cas, my God, where have you been?" Dean tried to pry Cas' arms from around his neck so he could see his face, but the other boy was shaking too violently. Dean held him close, tucking his nose into Cas' hair. "Cas?"

Cas held on, breathing Dean's scent, letting it envelop him in its warm familiarity. When he finally relaxed his ferocious grip on Dean's neck and backed away, he had to rub the wetness from his cheeks.

Dean frowned as he gingerly touched the cut on Cas' lip. "Son of a bitch," he swore. "I'll—"

"No," Cas cried harshly, his voice carrying across the room. He pressed his lips to Dean's fingertip. "Please," he whispered, eyes pleading.

Dean studied him for a long moment in the soft light of the moon. "Okay, Cas."

He tucked Cas into bed, pulling him close and covering them both with the sheet. Cas' body still trembled finely, but he eventually fell into a restless sleep. Dean lay awake long into the night, troubled, his finger glancing over Cas' swollen lip, lightly feathering across his tear-stained cheeks, wondering how many secrets it would take before Cas was broken for good.

...

_Present_

Jess was so cold she couldn't feel her fingers or her toes. She was beginning to fear hypothermia because she was having a hard time staying awake.

She blinked, blinded by the sudden light when the rolling door of the hatch was thrown open.

"Well, hello, beautiful," a silky voice murmured as the silhouetted figure climbed into the back.

Jess tried to focus on his features when he leaned over her, and failed, the sun's afterimage too strong, her head fogged with cold and exhaustion. She protested weakly, her reaction time delayed when he tied a dark cloth around her head, closing off her vision.

"Let's get you settled in, shall we," he whispered against her ear and she shivered, this time from a stark fear rather than the cold.

She fell into him when he unstrapped her arms and legs and pulled her to her feet. Her legs were too weak to hold her and he chuckled darkly. "Looks like you're going to need some TLC, Jessica." He swung her into his arms and stepped carefully from the back of the truck, his jolting movements telling her the truck had a portable stairway. She must have blacked out then, because the next thing she was aware of was another bed beneath her head. She struggled and he held her firmly against the mattress.

"Who are you," she moaned. "What do you want?"

"Easy, there, angel." His fingers bit into her arms. "I don't want to tie you down, but I will if I have to."

"Let me go," she whispered, hating the tears that burned behind the blindfold.

"All in good time, my dear, all in good time."

He stood abruptly and she was free, although still disoriented. A loud _clank _followed by retreating footsteps let her know she was alone again and her hands shook when she fumbled to remove the cloth tied round her head.

She blinked several times, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. She sat up, looking frantically around her, but she was alone in an empty cell, pale grey bars surrounding her. There was an adjacent cell, with two more across the narrow corridor that divided them. She shook her wrists, willing the feeling back into her fingers.

A fluorescent lighting fixture overhead buzzed. It was the only sound.

The 'room' held a cot with a thin blanket and pillow, and there was a sink and toilet in the corner, much like she imagined a jail cell would contain. She stood and unsteadily made her way to the bars, pulling fruitlessly against the door. It remained locked tight. To the right of the cells was a concrete wall, to the left the corridor disappeared up a dark stairway. Jess knew with a certainty she attributed to the latent sixth sense her grandmother had always warned her she would one day possess, '_it skips a generation, Jessica'; _she was underground.

...

Cas leaned back against the hood of the impala and watched Dean pace while he talked to Sam on the phone. They were in the parking lot at Camp Chitaqua, and it looked as though the three of them were in this together now. Somehow, some way, after all of his watchfulness and years of denial and shielding and yes, fucking _protecting _the thing he held most dear, Cas had failed and Dean was firmly entrenched in the cesspool that was Cas' legacy.

"We're on our way to the gravesite, Sam." Dean listened, frowning, but his voice was soothing when he spoke again. "Cas thinks the killer may have left something for him there, you're going to have to trust us on this, Sammy."

Cas' heart twisted at the '_us'._

"I don't give a fuck what you tell Henrikson. He wouldn't get anyone out here until we're long gone anyway." Dean stopped in front of Cas, green eyes unsteady, anger and fear and uncertainty belying his assured tone. "We'll find her, Sam."

He hung up, his arm falling limply to his side.

"We will, Dean," Cas said quietly.

"Yeah? Can you guarantee that?"

Cas didn't answer and he stood, carefully avoiding touching Dean when he brushed beside him to go to the rental car. "We should hurry."

He popped the trunk and retrieved the shovel he had stowed there, and a roll of garbage bags. He felt Dean wince beside him.

"I'm not sure what we'll find," he apologized. Melanie Bodine had lain in the grave Cas had provided for her for almost twenty years; whatever else was there in the woods, Cas couldn't change that fact. He pressed the trunk lid back in place with a click and turned to go.

Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"You could have told me. All of it, Cas."

There was sorrow there, an unbearable sadness, and Cas wondered if Dean too was steeling himself against an inevitable loss when this was over.

"No, Dean. I couldn't. Not without risking your life, your family's life." He looked down at the hand still holding his arm, the veins on the back well known, the calloused fingertips well loved for the way they played across his features, dragging gooseflesh behind them. "I'm tired of apologizing," he sighed.

"Then don't," Dean urged, lifting the same hand to Cas' chin, dragging his eyes back to Dean's face. "Help me find this bastard and bring Jess home safe."

Cas nodded, once. He hoped to God it was that simple. He felt calm, shockingly so, and it disgusted him. But he also knew that for the better part of two decades, he had been chasing a dragon, and he finally had it by the tail.

It helped that Dean believed him, unquestioningly.

They followed the trail into the woods, and Cas hesitated only once, just before he crossed the threshold and entered the hushed thicket of trees. He concentrated on location, the years playing havoc with his memories; they had entered the woods from the highway side of the forest the day they buried Melanie's body.

"Is it Gabriel, then?" Dean's words were the first either had spoken since entering the forest.

Cas contemplated that; he had been running it over in his mind as well, from the moment he had found Daphne, had seen the letter postmark. He shook his head.

"It doesn't feel like Gabe, he was never cruel."

"Everyone else is dead," Dean said flatly. He had never been fond of any of Cas' family save Cas, with the exception of a single and horrifically devastating night with Anna. He watched Cas' back, waiting for him to respond, knowing he too was remembering that fateful night, bright orange flames lighting the sky over Cas' childhood home.

Cas finally stopped, waiting for Dean to come along side him. "I've always thought Michael got away," he admitted softly. His eyes were hooded in the shade of a low-hanging branch.

Dean whistled low. "That would be a pretty neat trick, Cas. I'm not sure even Michael could have pulled it off."

Cas began to walk again, reaching down to clasp Dean's wrist, to keep him close. "Michael could have done it."

They continued in silence for another half-mile. When Cas' fingers brushed his, Dean wanted nothing more than to grasp them, cling to him. He was torn between the frantic need to go to his brother, tear across the state of Kansas until they found Jess, and the desire to soothe, _to save_, the man beside him. His best friend. The only person Dean had ever loved. Dean wondered how he would ever overcome the shame he could feel, swamping him, now that he knew Cas' childhood, his _whole life_ outside of the time he had spent with Dean, had been a literal torment.

That Dean had been so close, and did nothing to prevent it.

It didn't matter that they had been children; a part of Dean had known. Dean had covered for Cas sometimes when he asked him to, the days he would show up bleeding or cut or, God forbid, burned. Dean might have even prayed on more than one occasion to finally be big enough, strong enough, to beat the hell out of Cas' father and brothers.

Even Cas' anguish over the death of Anna, the only other Novak that seemed outwardly untouched by the putrid stench of evil that surrounded that house, could not temper Dean's gladness that Alistair and Michael had perished with her. Gabriel had been gone by then, a runaway at nineteen, never to be heard from again.

Gabe. Dean still put his money on the middle brother as the most likely suspect, no matter what Cas thought. He was starting to understand that Cas was haunted by a mythical illusion of the two eldest Novaks' memory, brought about by a childhood that forced him to create artificial worlds as a means of escape when the reality of his life got too harsh. When he couldn't escape to Dean.

But Dean was a realist, and an investigator, and ninety-eight times out of a hundred, the perpetrator turned out to be the most obvious suspect. Even when they were smart enough to feign a slight of hand. He made a mental note to text Sam and have him dig into Gabriel's disappearance, and find the report on the Novak fire. Maybe there was something in it that definitively stated how many bodies were in the home; he had always assumed it was three. The fire had been the same day Cas left him for good, and at the time Dean had been too heartbroken, too numbed by grief to question the details.

He remembered something and reached for Cas' hand, pulling him to a stop. "The letter," he said. "The one in your jacket. I opened it."

Cas bit his lip and his brow furrowed with concern. "What did it say?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't remember, something about the lamb straying and the wolf coming home."

Cas blanched.

"What," Dean urged, taking a step closer. "What does it mean?"

"I'm the lamb," Cas said, eyes hard and glittering. He turned and started walking again. "My father always called me the lamb."

Dean followed, lips pursed. "And the wolf?"

"Father," Cas said curtly. They crested the top of a hill and he stopped, out of breath. "This is it."

Dean looked down into the small valley. The sun beamed through the trees, exactly as Cas had described it a few hours earlier, exactly the way it must have when they had interred Melanie Bodine's remains. "Let's get this over with."

He squeezed Cas' fingers in reassurance, then pulled the shovel from his hand.

"Dean," Cas protested, but Dean stopped him with a hard look. He moved in close, a spare inch separating them, his free hand pulling at Cas' waist until their belts clinked together.

"Not a word," Dean spoke gruffly against his temple. "They don't get one more piece of you, Cas. Never again." His lips grazed Cas' cheek and he took a much needed step back, inhaling a shaky breath. "Tell me where she is."

Cas' mouth worked and he swallowed back the rush of emotion filling his throat. "I'll go with you." He held up a hand when Dean's lips parted to protest. "I love you."

Dean's mouth snapped shut and Cas smiled sadly.

"I love you," he said again. "And I'm humbled by what you're offering. But we'll do this together."

Dean pushed into Cas' body warmth and kissed him hungrily. His breath was a welcome heat on Cas' mouth when they parted. "Then we'll do it together."

Cas nodded and led the way.

...


	11. Chapter 11

...

Dean had seen his share of bodies, in varying states of decay. In his line of work, it was inevitable, and a time or two he had even known the victim. This would be different, if they found her.

He had been haunted by Melanie Bodine's face that summer, her shining curls and friendly smile plastered across the nightly news broadcast for weeks. It sickened him to realize Cas had suffered the truth of her death alone, protected a gruesome secret, protected _Dean_, and all he'd gotten in return was a best friend who had distanced himself. At first Dean had simply been wary, Mary's gentle caution heavy on his mind.

In retrospect, Dean had misread Cas' subdued behavior, thinking his friend was sorry for the kiss they had shared in the cabin. Maybe they had moved too fast. Unwilling to lose his best friend, unsure how to cope with a life where Cas wasn't wholly in it, every day, Dean had simply reverted to familiar behavior. It was never a conscious decision and it happened naturally, easily; they were simply best friends again.

Now that he understood the horror of Cas' home life, Dean was devastated by the vanity and stupidity of his teenage self. Maybe if he had been more open and honest with him, Cas would have felt he had someone on his side, someone he could turn to. So many things might have gone differently.

Instead Dean ended up fucking Lisa Braeden.

_That _was a two-year mistake Dean would come to regret. Lisa was the cheerleader to Dean's all-star athlete, and if he was honest, he could admit he had enjoyed the notoriety that came with scoring on the hottest girl in school. Dean still occasionally woke up in a cold sweat, dreaming about he afternoon she had told him she thought she was pregnant. In that instant, Dean's future had flashed before his eyes. He could see himself clearly, changing oil and rotating tires down at the Jiffy Lube for the rest of his life, never having more than a tiny two-bedroom apartment or a dingy rental house. Never having the money to take a vacation, to a beach or a national park.

Never having Cas.

It was the instant of clarity and truth for Dean. The day, the hour, and the minute that he realized he, Dean Winchester, loved Castiel Novak, to the depths of his soul. And he had done so for so long that his life would be dimmer, duller, unremarkable, _ordinary,_ if he couldn't spend it with Cas.

Dingy walkups and pitiful vacations seemed like grand adventures, if only he could change the partner he would be sharing them with.

People might say he was too young to know his mind or heart with certainty, and Dean would be inclined to agree with them if it was any other seventeen year old. But he was right about this. A sick fear in his gut gnawed at him for days while he wrestled with a worrisome thought: what if it had been Cas who had placed this new distance between them, and not Dean's idiocy or the thing with Lisa.

Lisa wasn't pregnant. That welcome news barely registered in light of Dean's inner turmoil. He immediately (and rather callously, all things considered) broke up with her and couldn't dredge up more than the thinnest veneer of guilt when he told her there was someone else and always had been. Always would be.

Dean invited Cas to the lake on a Friday, which was not unusual; they often went on fishing trips on the weekends when the weather was warm. Usually they slept in John's old pop up tent, or sometimes in sleeping bags under the stars if it was clear. Sometimes they were forced to drive home early, skies dark with thunderclouds, harsh waves licking the shores.

Dean had checked the weather report before they left; he didn't mention the eighty percent chance of rain to Cas. He conveniently forgot the sleeping bags and the tent. He was jumpy and tense and more than once Cas poked fun at his absent-mindedness while they packed their food and fishing gear.

He tried desperately not to fidget when they were finally alone.

When the first raindrop fell, Cas had laughed, snatching up their meager belongings and racing with Dean to the impala. The car had been a present for Dean's seventeenth birthday and it was his pride and joy. He had once teased Lisa that they should christen the back seat, but Dean had never planned to follow through. Not with her.

He and Cas watched the rain pelt the impala's shiny hood from inside the car, drinking beer they had snuck out of the mini-fridge in the Winchester garage. Cas kept the cooler between his feet within easy reach. The radio was tuned to a local rock station and the car's interior was warm, but not overly so; it was nice, companionable. Though they had been largely inseparable, for as long as Dean could remember, his relationship with Lisa had admittedly added tension over the past two years. The strain made Dean twitchy now, worried he had fucked them up for good.

He thought about a summer night in a cabin, and a game of truth or dare.

"I broke up with Lisa," he blurted, then took a long pull from his can.

"Okay." Cas drew the word out into three long syllables. He looked at Dean in the lights from the dash and raised his eyebrows. "Does that mean you want to talk about it? Discuss your feelings?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled, fiddling with the radio and ignoring the heat flaring in his cheeks. "I, uh, just wanted you to know."

"I probably would have figured it out when your days suddenly stopped revolving around cheer practice," Cas mocked. Dean thought he detected a note of hurt in his tone; he was convinced when Cas failed to meet his eyes.

"You always came first," Dean said gruffly, swallowing another drink. Maybe he should just down the whole thing at once. _Liquid courage._ Cas' head whipped around to stare at him and Dean fidgeted uncomfortably.

"What?"

"I don't know where you came up with that gem."

"You being first?" Dean shrugged. "You are. I know it, Sammy knows it, Lisa knew it. Maybe the only person who _didn't_ know it was you."

When Cas lifted his own beer to his lips Dean noticed the slight tremor in his hand. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"I'm here now, aren't I," Dean asked, finally emptying his can and tossing it into the floorboard.

Cas gave him another shocked look.

"Now what? You gonna keep looking at me like I've grown three heads all night?"

"You _never_ throw trash in the floor. Hell you barely let anyone _sit_ in this goddamn car." Cas shook his head, a relaxed grin lighting his handsome face, and Dean's stomach wrenched in a hot twist of nervous tension. "I've been meaning to tell you Dean, I'm a little worried about your obsession with _Baby."_

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I haven't seen you complaining when we pull up in front of school in her, everyone checking out the fine body and fucking hot exterior."

Cas' laugh rang out over a clap of thunder. The rain was coming down in sheets against the windshield now. "I think that's just you projecting, Dean. Nobody else gets horny as hell over a car."

Dean, feeling bolder, leaned across Cas' lap, reaching between his knees to fish another beer from the ice. He smiled to himself when he felt Cas tense, his thigh moving uneasily against Dean's ribcage. He straightened with a sly smile, popping the top on the beer and winking. "I wasn't talking about the car."

Dean had a split-second of fear that Cas would be flustered by what was too obviously blatant flirting, but Cas cocked his head and asked, "Which one gets you hotter? The car or this?" He waved a hand down his body with a flourish, mouth split wide on a grin.

"Both." Dean admitted, grinning back. "But mostly you." _Jesus Christ on a cracker, you,_ Dean thought breathlessly_._

They sat smiling at one another, letting their flirtation heat the car's interior, a pleasant buzz of electricity dancing along their skin. Dean swallowed and carefully set the beer in the brand new cupholder his dad had helped him to install. He shifted in his seat, slanting his hips more toward the center, gaze catching on Cas' mouth, enjoying the way the edges lifted in a soft grin. "I guess we won't need that tent tonight, huh?"

Cas narrowed his eyes. "So that was a total accident, right? Forgetting the tent?" He leaned his left hand onto the bench seat, angling his upper body closer to Dean's.

"Uh huh," Dean whispered, his voice failing. _Damn,_ how had he forgotten how fucking _blue_ Cas' eyes were? "We could always drive home," he trailed off. _Please say no. Please say no. _

"Are you high," Cas asked incredulously, his voice dropping into a register Dean had never heard before. It did wicked things to his gut, sparking a hot flush that felt like it was trying to escape through his pores.

Dean chuckled. "A little buzzed," he admitted. He leaned forward, placing his palm beside Cas' on the seat.

Their mouths were inches away now, chests rising and falling in tandem.

"Me too," Cas laughed softly. "But I don't think it's the beer." His head dipped forward and he brushed his mouth across Dean's upper lip. Dean sucked in a breath, tongue darting out but failing to make contact before Cas skimmed away.

"No fair," he whispered, shifting again, scooting his hips closer to the median.

Cas' mouth returned, sliding over the smooth skin of his cheekbone, down his freshly shaven jawline; Dean had gotten ready for this camping trip like it was a date, complete with the cologne Cas had bought him for Christmas. They had exchanged presents casually on the floor of Dean's bedroom the night of Christmas Eve. Cas had gotten him an expensive bottle of cologne and a used copy of _I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew_. He had read the Dr. Seuss book to Dean when they were studying the Odyssey in English that fall, after Dean hit a brick wall on Homer's tale.

Dean had gotten Cas an antique rosary he had seen in a flea market on a shopping trip with his mom one afternoon. Cas loved rosaries, a rather incongruous fascination for a teenage boy maybe, especially since Dean didn't think the Novak's were practicing Catholics.

After opening his present, Cas had slid the old, glass beads through his fingers, a soft smile on his face. "Thank you, Dean," he had whispered, leaning forward to offer a rare hug. When he had tucked his face into Dean's neck, his nose was cold, but his lips were warm.

"Smells good," he had murmured before releasing Dean's neck and sitting back up. Dean had squirted a single spray of the cologne after opening it. He would savor the amber glass bottle, use it sparingly over the next several months, and only when he was with Cas.

A flash of lightening made Dean jump and he shifted again, his fingers overlapping Cas' on the seat. He squeezed the two he could catch between his pinky and ring finger. "Cas," he exhaled the name as the other boys lips slid across his cheekbone. He was forced to close his eyes when Cas' free hand reached up to rake a palm down his face.

"I can't look at you when I do this," Cas whispered, repeating the words Dean had used the first time they had kissed.

Cas licked into his mouth once, twice, then pulled away again.

Dean groaned. "You're a tease, Castiel Novak."

"Yeah? And you're rumored to be something of a slut, Dean Winchester," Cas murmured, lips grazing Dean's jawline again, before dipping lower to mouth at his Adam's apple.

Dean was so hard his jeans were tight, fly bulging. "Not a slut." He whimpered when Cas bit gently into his neck. "Oh _fuck, _Cas_._"

His squirmed restlessly when he felt Cas' tongue licking a stripe up his neck, a direct path to his mouth.

"I wish," Cas whispered, placing soft kisses along Dean's lower lip, "I wish she had never been in this car."

The words were so quiet, Dean might have missed them if he hadn't been held suspended, enthralled by the spell Cas had woven. He opened his eyes, bringing a hand to the back of Cas' neck. The dark hair at his nape was springy to the touch and it made Dean smile. He hadn't touched Cas' hair in a long time. He tugged gently, pulling Cas' face to his own.

"Don't worry, I saved the backseat for us."

Cas smiled before his mouth fell open against Dean's, lacking the finesse and ease of his earlier kisses, but more than making up for it with each warm stroke of his tongue. Dean kissed him back, mouth returning again and again, unable to get enough, to press close enough, to taste enough.

"Take this off," Dean urged against Cas' cheekbone, his hands worming under Cas' old t-shirt. He laughed when Cas stripped it off in two seconds flat.

"Now you," Cas said suggestively, his fingers spreading over his own stomach languidly. Through the heated fog of his brain, Dean knew they should probably slow down, he was going to blow his load before he ever got out of his jeans, but on the other hand, _holy fucking shit, _Cas was hot. _Hot _hot.

Hotter than any girl Dean had been with, that was for sure. He ripped his t-shirt over his head too, ear burning where it got caught in the tight neck opening. Cas' hands immediately switched to Dean's body, roaming over his bare stomach and chest. He smiled into Dean's mouth when Dean positioned his head back where he wanted it.

"Mmm," Cas murmured around Dean's tongue. "Pants. Take off your pants."

Dean's dick twitched painfully at Cas' words, and Dean reached down to unsnap his fly, the zipper splaying open on it's own from the force of his erection. He got stuck under the steering wheel trying to shimmy the garment from his legs. Cas tried to help, laughing at his predicament.

"Dean Winchester, trapped because his hard on was too big." He accompanied the teasing tone with a palm cupped around Dean's sex, and Dean jumped.

"_Jesus_, Cas," the words fell off on a loud moan when Cas began to knead the flesh under his hand. "Wait, baby, wait," Dean urged, but his hips belied his words, canting up, seeking more. His own hand clamped around Cas' wrist, holding him in place. "_Fuck," _Dean swore again. He rested his forehead against Cas' cheek, breathing the springy scent of his shampoo.

Cas turned his head to press a lingering kiss into Dean's mouth, and his hand squeezed Dean's cock gently, then began to stroke lightly over his underwear. "Shhh, just relax Dean._"_

"What happened to naked," Dean gasped, nearly swallowing his tongue when Cas' fingers dipped teasingly below the elastic of his boxers. "_Jesus fucking Christ_," he moaned again, writhing on the seat and throwing his head back into the headrest. "Don't stop," he managed to grind out between breaths.

"I didn't plan to," Cas said against his neck, hand moving more purposefully, long fingers wrapping around him, one finger brushing the wet slit, wrenching another groan from the Dean's throat.

"Back seat," Dean panted. His knees were still trapped by the steering wheel and his body wanted to _move._

Cas chuckled darkly into the juncture of Dean's shoulder and neck. "Okay, okay." He pulled reluctantly away, removing his hand from Dean in the process.

Dean was breathing heavily, trying to process the past five minutes. _Nope_, he thought. His mind was laser focused on getting more of Cas' mouth and hands, and then, _God help him, _reciprocating. He kicked his shoes off and climbed over the seatback enthusiastically, jeans sagging around his hips. "C'mon Cas, it's cozy back here." He leaned up to wriggle his eyebrows in Cas' direction. "And the backseat's a virgin. This will be her first time."

Cas rolled his eyes. "Real classy, Winchester." But he piled over the seatback too, and Dean laughed out loud, catching him in a tangle of arms and legs.

Cas silenced his laughter when he grasped the edges of Dean's jeans and ripped them down his legs in one pull, boxers and all. He deposited them in the floorboard, stopping to peel the socks from Dean's feet and, much to Dean's embarrassment, to kiss the inside of Dean's knee gently. Dean scratched at his arms, trying to bring Cas' mouth back to his.

Cas was having none of it though; he moved with a calm assurance that said he had waited a lifetime to get Dean Winchester naked and willing beneath him, and he was going to take his fucking time. Dean's entire body thrummed with an excited yearning the moment Cas' head bent over his groin. The first brush of lips on the head of his cock was the most exquisite sensation he had ever experienced and he moaned loudly.

Dean's fingers dug into Cas' hair, then gentled, combing through the softness. "Sorry," he whispered.

Cas smiled up at him, tongue swiping across his lips, tasting. "Did you like that?"

"_Holy shit," _Dean groaned again when Cas fit his mouth around him and sucked, taking in as much of Dean as he could manage. "Cas, _Jesus_, we're never leaving this car." He tensed, fingers tightening in Cas' hair when Cas pulled his lips back, letting his teeth lightly scrape the underside of his dick on an upstroke.

Dean realized belatedly that the high-pitched whine he could hear was coming from his throat. His hips wanted to move, pump into Cas' mouth, and he struggled to remain stationary, not wanting to choke him. Cas seemed to understand his predicament because his hands smoothed up Dean's thighs to cup around his hips, holding him still.

"_Fuck,"_ Dean sighed again, eyes blinking against a bright streak of lightening. The air sizzled with a sudden electrical charge. "Cas," he whispered, hand cupping the other boy's jaw. "Cas maybe we should move away from the water." His eyes rolled back in his head when Cas ignored him and hollowed his cheeks.

Cas' mouth popped off of him with a smack. He lazily pumped Dean in his fist, smirking. "You're not moving until I'm done with you."

Dean chuckled on a groan. "Please _God,_ don't ever be done with me."

He didn't miss the way Cas' eyes softened when he said, "I'll never be done with you, Dean."

As it turned out, Cas' mouth had been straight out of Dean's teenage wet dreams, and the thing that would haunt him for months after they _'stopped'._ After that fateful camping trip, there were many nights Cas climbed through Dean's bedroom window, nights when Dean had had to press a fist between his teeth to stifle the sounds torn from his throat. Cas was much better at keeping quiet than Dean, but when they were truly alone in the house, or in the backseat of the car, he didn't hold back. Dean loved the way he would let himself fall apart then, pink flush rising up his ribcage, soft hands lovingly holding Dean's head, guiding him when he faltered, unpracticed and unsure.

Dean was supposed to be the one with more experience, but Cas had taught him how to make love. Cas had also taught him how it felt to have your heart broken, the day he told Dean he thought they should stop.

"Not because I don't love it, Dean, I do," Cas said, eyes serious. They were curled around each other in Dean's bed, sweat cooling their skin in the chilly November air. "But you're not going to be with me, and I'm not going to be with you, not outside of this bedroom, and frankly, it's confusing the hell out of me."

Dean's arms tightened around him. "What if I wanted to be? Together, I mean."

Cas pressed a kiss to his chest. "You don't."

Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't know me as well as you think you do."

Cas smiled against his skin, rubbing his open mouth along a nipple. Dean gasped, squirming under him. "I know you well enough."

Dean pulled Cas' mouth back to his, anguish and worry and love wrapped inside a searching kiss.

"It'll be easier," Cas said, calmer as he moved to lie on the pillow beside him, Dean feeling the separation as if a physical wound. "And maybe when we graduate, get away from small town gossip, we'll change our mind."

"Change _your_ mind, you mean," Dean said softly, an undertone of hurt and confusion in the words.

Cas' hand moved under the sheet to clasp Dean's. "I love you," he said quietly and it was the first time either had uttered those three words.

"You've got a funny way of showing it." Dean rolled over to face him. His heart beat hard in his chest. He didn't return the words, withholding them on a spark of anger.

Cas rolled his eyes and reached up to brush the hair back from Dean's forehead. "I'm not worried about this, Dean. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm in love with you. I can wait."

Dean leaned forward to kiss him softly. "I'll miss your mouth," he sighed tragically.

Cas snorted. "Yeah, well maybe I'll have a drunken mistake every now and then," he waggled his eyebrows, blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

But he didn't. They would not share a bed again after that night, not until that fateful St. Patty's day a few years later. And Cas had been right, much as Dean had been loathe to admit it when they were lying naked, wrapped around each other.

In the cold light of their lives outside of Dean's bed, it was simply too unrealistic to be together that way. At first Dean waited for graduation day, thinking that was the magical moment when everything would change and he would be able to shout his feelings for Cas from the rooftops and everyone would begin to sing and dance, joyful in his admission, like a movie musical. The reality was, they fell easily and quickly back into the routine of being best friends, and after a time, Dean began to have doubts.

Dean glanced over at Cas now, his gorgeous profile framed in the sunlight as it filtered through the trees, and remembered being seventeen and aching for the body beside him, being eighteen and giving it up. He wondered how different their lives might have been if he had insisted that night in his bedroom that they take a chance on them. Face the world, the consequences, together.

"It's here," Cas said quietly. He squatted down, running his hand over the forest floor. "Someone's been here."

Dean frowned, kneeling beside him. Cas was right; the pine needles and leaves had been carefully placed to cover the fact that the ground had been recently dug up, filled in. Dean straightened, hand gripping the shovel tight. "Move back."

Cas's fingers held a fistful of debris and he opened his hand, let it fall to the ground when he stood.

It took Dean about twenty minutes to open the grave, approximately half the time it had taken fifteen year old Cas to originally dig it. After two feet, he slowed, movements careful lest he disturb the remains or miss a clue. At four feet, Cas stopped him, jumping into the hole with him.

"She's gone, Dean."

Dean leaned on the handle. "Goddammit," he swore. He raked the back of his fist across his sweaty forehead. "Are you sure this is the right spot?"

Cas nodded gravely. "I'm sure." He bit his lip, dropping his eyes to the dark turned earth at their feet. "I used to come here sometimes. Say a prayer for her soul."

"Jesus," Dean whispered, closing his eyes. He wondered if Cas was ever going to be okay again. He was falling apart before Dean's eyes, the layers of strength and determination and feisty ambition that Dean remembered now a fragile shell that was rapidly disintegrating.

"Hop out and I'll fill in this hole. Why don't you walk back to the impala, get us a bottle of water?"

Cas nodded and let Dean boost him over the side of the makeshift grave, then reached down to haul Dean up beside him. Dean fished the car keys from his front pocket and passed them to him gingerly, trying not to transfer any of the wet dirt; it was nonsensical, but he didn't want one fleck of this grave to touch Cas.

"Hey," he said when Cas turned to go. Cas stopped, tilting his head inquisitively, eyes too dull, making Dean's heart ache. Dean leaned forward and kissed him softly, swallowing Cas' sigh. "I love you," Dean whispered. The words had been caught in his chest, unspoken for too long, it was a sweet release to finally say them.

Cas nodded again, his hair brushing against Dean's cheek, before he turned away and began to make his way back to the car.

Dean frowned, watching him walk away. He had just started filling in the hole when a swift _whizz_ and _crack_ snapped through the air and he ducked, whipping his head around for the source.

Cas' sharp cry turned his blood to ice.

"Cas!" Dean threw the shovel aside and ran, dropping to his knees when he found Cas' writhing on the ground, his hands bright red with blood where they clasped at his chest. A razor sharp triangle of metal protruded from an area just below his collarbone. He pulled Cas' hands away.

"Hold still, baby, don't, you're going to cut yourself."

Cas grunted, eyes screwed shut, but he allowed Dean to transfer his hands to Dean's shirt and he gripped it tight in his fists. "Dean," he rasped, jerking in agony when Dean ripped his shirt open to survey the damage. Dean's breath clogged in his throat when he realized how few inches separated the long, jagged strip and Cas' heart. The point had gone all the way through, slicing through the tissue and muscle of Cas' upper chest, jutting from his back at an angle, just above his shoulder blade.

Dean glanced around them quickly, surveying the surrounding forest. The sounds preceding Cas' cry had reminded him implicitly of the trap that had caught him the day prior. Ten or fifteen yards away he saw it around the base of a tree, a thin cord. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and gently packed it around the edge of the wound, wincing at Cas' gutteral moan.

"Hold this, I'll be right back." He waited until Cas met his eyes, nodding once, and stood, looking carefully around him as he gingerly made his way to the tree. He knelt beside it, the cord at the base slack now that it's trigger had been released. He surveyed the area with sharp eyes. They had apparently been very lucky when they first entered the clearing; the booby trap worked essentially on a sling-shot mechanism, and with that long shard of uneven metal as ammunition, it could have easily been much worse. He was just about to hurry back to Cas' side when he saw it, a block of flagstone, words inscribed into its top, probably via another small rock: _A grave is only a grave with a body._

Dean ground his teeth together.

Cas was pale, his face damp with sweat. He was sitting up, leaning on one hand when Dean squatted down beside him.

"Easy," Dean murmured, one hand at his back to steady him. The metal shard mocked Dean, glinting in the sun as it stuck out from Cas' chest at an angle. "I can't remove it, not here. We need to get back to the car."

Cas' eyes were glazed in pain but they sharpened on Dean's face. "What did you find?"

"A message," Dean grunted, cautiously wrapping his arm's around Cas' waist and helping him to his feat. Cas swayed unsteadily. "You okay?"

Cas nodded. "Yeah," he grimaced. "Hurts like a motherfucker."

Dean choked back a laugh, relief flooding his system. "I bet." He squeezed Cas' waist before releasing him. "Let's go."

They trek back to the car was tortuously slow. Whey they finally made it, Dean helped Cas ease into the passenger seat, worry darkening his face when he realized the t-shirt Cas held around the wound was soaked with blood.

"You need a hospital."

"No," Cas said sharply. His breathing was too rapid and Dean surreptitiously felt for his pulse where he held his wrist in his hand. It was fast, thready.

"Cas," Dean started, but stopped at Cas' black look. "Fine," he sighed. "Hotel first, and I'll do my best, but if I don't think I can get it cleaned and bandaged, I'm taking you to the goddamn emergency room." Dean's stomach turned over when he realized he was going to have to pull the shard from Cas' shoulder.

"Thank you," Cas sighed, wincing as he tried to lean back and the point jarred against the seatback.

Dean kissed his temple and shut the door, jogging around the bumper to the driver's side. His hand shook as he tried to get the key in the ignition.

Cas squeezed his forearm with a bloody palm. "Take a breath, Dean. I'm okay."

Dean closed his eyes, and took Cas' advice, breathing deep. The coppery smell of fresh blood made him weak-kneed, because it was _Cas,_ and he was exceedingly glad he was sitting down. "I'm going to kill this bastard," he said quietly, meeting Cas' eyes.

Cas squeezed Dean's arm again before clutching the t-shirt tighter around the wound. "Let's try not to impale any other body parts first, okay?" he said, a weak smile pulling the corner of his mouth up.

Dean turned the key and the impala roared to life. He drove.

...


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's Note: **__Sorry for the slight delay updating this chapter! I appreciate all of you, your comments keep me motivated and invested. So thank you!_

...

Jess must have dozed off, despite her best intentions to stay awake for the rest of the night, or maybe it was day; the truth was, she had lost all sense of time. She only knew that she did not want to lose a single ounce of awareness.

Sam would find her. She clung to that.

She awoke with a start when a hand ran through her hair, fingers combing the tangled waves, catching on a knot. She bit her lip to withhold a scream.

"Such pretty, gold locks. Goldilocks," the man crooned. "Did you know that in the original tale of _The Three Bears,_ the bears were brothers and Goldilocks was a fox?" He leaned close, mouth too near her ear and Jess flinched away. "They ate him," he whispered.

Jess shuddered. "Get off of me," she whispered, steeling herself when his hand continued to stroke through her hair.

He chuckled, but sat back. "You are a pretty thing, I must say. Sammy Winchester caught himself quite a looker."

"How do you know Sam?" Her voice was sharp but still held the barest hint of quaver. He must have turned on additional lights because she could see him clearly now. He was handsome, inordinately so, with dark, dark hair and eyes. When he refused to answer her, his smile displayed a set of perfectly even, white teeth.

"The Winchesters and I go way back. Practically family."

"Bullshit," Jess retorted, anger at hearing Sam's name on this vile man's lips overcoming her fear.

He laughed again, a rich, throaty sound that Jess suspected far too many women had succumbed to. She shivered when she wondered what their fate might have been. "Honest." He held a hand over his heart in a gross mockery of sincerity. "I'm Michael. Castiel is my brother."

"Dean's Castiel?" Jess turned what information she had about the Novak's over in her mind; it might become important. Unfortunately, there was very little. Dean and Cas broke up shortly after she and Sam had gotten serious, so she had never had the opportunity to get to know the other man's history. She knew they had all been childhood friends and neighbors. And that Dean had never recovered.

"_Dean's_ Castiel," Michael snorted. "I like that, I do. Is he still pining for him then?" He stood and paced to the cell door and back, his hands nervous and fidgety. "That makes this even more beautiful, really it does." He smiled down at her. "Now. Have dinner with me?"

"Fuck you." Jess' voice was quiet and strong.

"Don't tempt me," he said drily. He cocked his head studying her and she scooted closer to the wall. The look in his eyes sent a cold sliver of fear up her spine.

"Sam will kill you if you touch me," she warned, hoping like hell she sounded more confident than she felt. _Please, Sam, hurry._

"As much as I'd love a good scrabble with little Sam Winchester now that he's all grown up, and quite a handsome lad, I must say, I fear your knight in shining armor was doomed to fail from the start." He lunged and Jess screamed, the sound echoing off the walls of the chamber. She struggled but the man was too strong, and he quickly manacled one of her wrists to the bed. She spat in his face when he paused at her head.

He blinked, then calmly dug into his trouser pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, dabbing at his chin. She cried out when he wrenched her other hand in his, feeling one of the small bones break. He took advantage of her sudden stillness and chained her free wrist.

"Now. Let's make a present for your husband, shall we?"

Jess refused to struggle against the crude cuffs, lying silent on the thin mattress, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. Her hand throbbed painfully. She ground her teeth together; whatever happened, she would survive this, Sam _would_ come for her.

Her heart stopped when the man produced a long pair of shears. She scrunched her eyes shut tight and turned her head to the wall when he reached for her face. There was a slight tug on her scalp followed by a _whisk,_ and she realized he had cut her hair. She struggled to move away from him, twisting and turning, a whimper escaping when he tried to grab another handful.

"Jessica," he barked, leaning on her chest and throat until he forced the breath from her lungs.

Jessica felt her vision blackening around the edges before he finally eased off. She gasped, coughing on each painful inhalation.

"These are sharp, angel." Michael turned the scissors to and fro, the blade glinting in the overhead light. "I wouldn't want to cut your pretty face on accident."

She forced herself to remain still, but no longer fought the tears as he cut off all of her hair. When he was done, he gathered the long, golden strands, bundling them in his hands, stroking them and whistling in admiration.

"Beautiful," he murmured and winked at her. "One lock per year, I think. Tied in a sweet pink bow and delivered on your birthday. A lovely reminder, don't you think?"

Jess refused to answer, looking away, unable to fathom how she must look now, feeling stupidly mournful over a pile of _hair,_ when realistically she knew her very life hung in balance.

"Now, since you refused to eat with me, you will have to stay here. I brought a tray."

"Fuck you," she whispered again, eyes glassy and trained on the bare, grey walls.

"That's what I thought you'd say." He shrugged. "Nonetheless, I will leave the tray here."

He moved quickly, lying on top of her so suddenly that she moaned, shrinking into the mattress. She gagged, feeling his erection against her leg.

Michael unchained her wrists, surprising her when he immediately stood without touching her further. She carefully held her aching hand, eyeing him warily.

"I suggest you eat, keep your strength" he said and Jess could hear the slight breathlessness in his tone. She swallowed back a spurt of nausea.

"No."

Michael shrugged again, calmly unlocking the cell and closing it again with a click when he stood on the other side. "Suit yourself. When you fall unconscious from hunger or thirst, I shall simply revive you with intravenous fluids." He gestured to the corner of the room and Jess' eyes widened when she saw the hospital-grade IV-pole and bags of clear liquid.

"Not all the way of course," he whispered, running a finger up and down one of the iron bars. "Just enough so that you wouldn't expire. That way, I can play as long as I like."

Jess closed her eyes on his cruel smile, so at odds with his beautiful face; she knew it would haunt her long after he left.

After her stomach stopped rolling, she forced herself to eat the sandwich and drink the milk he had left on the tray. No way in _hell_ was she going to pass out and let that disgusting bastard play his sick games with her while she was unconscious.

She pointedly did not touch her head, unwilling to acknowledge the cool draft around her ears and scalp.

...

Dean stopped at a tiny mom and pop pharmacy for supplies, retrieving a clean t-shirt from his duffel bag before venturing into the store. He used a bottle of hand sanitizer and a towel he kept in the trunk to clean the blood from his hands.

He unsnapped his waistband holster, setting his gun gently in Cas' lap when he crouched in the open passenger door.

"Hold this for me?" He winked cheerfully, but inside his worry kicked up a notch; Cas was pallid, his skin tinged grey.

"Gee, and it feels like it was only yesterday you were reading me my Miranda rights," Cas teased.

Dean chuckled, trying to ignore the strain in Cas' voice. "Just try not to shoot anybody while I'm gone."

"Dean," Cas called softly just before Dean shut the door.

"Yeah?"

"See if they have any Nehi grape." Cas' dry lips were turned up in a grin and Dean's heart clenched.

Dean hoped his return smile didn't look as fake as it felt. His palms were sweaty and his pulse raced; he instinctively knew he needed help with this one. "You bet, sweetheart, but don't get your heart set on it. I haven't seen a bottle of Nehi in fifteen years."

In the pharmacy he bought over-the-counter painkillers, bandages, peroxide, antibiotic ointment, sewing needles and unflavored dental floss. When he returned to the impala with two plastic bags, he dropped them into the back seat. He tried not to react to Cas' wince as he backed out of the angled parking space.

"You holding on, there?"

Cas nodded wearily, his dark hair flush against the headrest. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't look so hot," Dean quipped, trying to lighten the atmosphere, quell the sinking fear he had that they were well and truly _fucked_.

Cas huffed a laugh. "Trade you places," he rasped.

Dean rested his palm on Cas' thigh and squeezed. "I wish I could, babe."

A few miles down the highway, he stopped at a liquor store, the neon signs beckoning from the roadway. Once inside, he got out his phone, moving to the far back corner, out of view of the parking lot and away from prying ears at the register. He only knew one person even remotely local who he could call. Before he left the store, he bought two bottles of Jack Daniels.

When he returned to the impala with the telltale brown sack, Cas raised his eyebrows. "Nehi so risqué it goes in paper bags now?"

Dean snorted. "Smartass," he said affectionately. He leaned over to gently press his lips to Cas' temple. He felt warm, skin sticky and damp with sweat. "No Nehi, but I got you some good stuff."

He looked worriedly into Cas' eyes; the blue was glazed, dull with pain.

"Stop looking at me like that," Cas whispered, blinking slowly. "It's just a splinter."

Dean chuckled, returning to his seat and clicking his seatbelt into place. "Yeah, and Sammy was the runt of the litter." He frowned as he started the car. He hadn't heard from Sam since this morning.

"Did you call him?"

Dean glanced over to find Cas watching him. "Close your eyes," he ordered gruffly, but he tempered the words by returning his hand to Cas' leg. He sighed after a beat.

"And no. I didn't call him. I'm trying to keep his phone line open, but it's hard." He chanced a look at the passenger seat when he bumped across a hole entering the highway, but Cas' was resting, long lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. As soon as they were settled in a new motel, and they had taken care of Cas' wound, they were going to have to talk. About Gabe, about Michael. Dean still had questions, and the quicker he had answers, the quicker he could come up with a theory, and a plan for saving Jess.

"He'll call when he can," Cas murmured. He laid his hand over Dean's on his thigh.

Dean chose an out of the way motel in a direction opposite of where they needed to go. He twisted and turned down state highways, avoiding the interstate and toll roads for miles, until he found a sleepy town with little lure for passing strangers save a quick stop overnight. He couldn't risk Henrikson sending someone to track them, not yet. He also had to hope the older detective wasn't so bull-headed as to not realize Cas must be innocent since Dean now provided the perfect alibi, at least for Jess' abduction.

Even Henrikson at his most stubborn should be able to extrapolate from there.

Dean immediately felt sick that he held even a momentary gladness that Jess' horrific situation might in some way favor Cas.

He booked them a double for two nights, unsure how long before Cas would be comfortably able to travel. He would probably forfeit the second night's fee, but he was willing to sacrifice for the peace of mind of not moving Cas more than necessary, if it came to that.

He helped Cas out of the car and into the small room. It was neat and tidy, and it smelled fresh, the air inside sweet and spring-like.

"It smells clean," Cas said in wonderment, wincing as Dean helped him sit on the edge of the bed.

"Welcome to small-town America," Dean quipped. "They probably clean it with real soap and everything. Wait right here."

Cas nodded, seemingly stable as he held the bloody t-shirt to the base of the wound. Dean hurried back out to the impala for his duffle and their supplies. He also sent a quick text with their location.

"Damn, I should have bought a pan or something, so you wouldn't have to move to the bathroom." Dean frowned when he returned, eyes scanning the room for something that would work to hold water while they worked on the wound.

"I can manage, Dean," Cas said, reaching for a hand to help him to his feet.

"Hold on," Dean soothed, urging him back onto the bed.

"Hold on? I'd like to get the eight-inch piece of shrapnel out of my chest, in case you hadn't noticed." Cas' voice was deep, and testy. Dean smiled against his skin, tucking his face into Cas' neck.

"And stop smiling," Cas complained.

Dean pressed a quick kiss against the smooth skin. "Sorry," he said quickly. He squatted beside the bed, his eyes pleading. "Cas—"

"What did you do," Cas asked flatly.

"Nothing. I," Dean paused, squeezing Cas' fingers where they lay under his on the bedcovers. "I called an old friend. He's on his way."

Cas sucked in a breath. "Dean."

"Shut up," Dean said smoothly, dragging Cas' hand to his mouth. He kissed his wrist, the only skin free of blood. "We can trust him. And he's a medic."

Dean held his eyes until Cas sighed and nodded. "Fine. _Fine."_

"Thank you, sweetheart." Dean squeezed his hand again and stood. "Now I'm going to get you nice and drunk."

Cas snorted. "Well that escalated fast."

Dean smiled. "Jack here," he wiggled the paper bag, "will have to do in lieu of anesthesia."

Cas accepted the first tumbler of whiskey, wincing at the burn as it went down. "Couldn't you have done vodka or rum or something less red-blooded American male," he groused, taking another long swallow.

Dean laughed lightly, taking his own sip. There was a reason he had bought two bottles, but it wouldn't do for them both to be incapacitated, no matter how badly he craved the escape. "I forgot you were such a girl in your liquor preferences. You and Sammy."

Cas made an ugly face as he threw back the rest of his glass in one drink. He shuddered. "I'm not even offended at that in the slightest. This tastes like shit." He held out his glass. "Hit me again."

Dean grinned. "Attaboy." He filled the glass with the amber liquid and watched carefully as Cas drank it. He could see the instant the whiskey began to work its magic, the tension around Cas' eyes loosening, a bit of color flushing his cheeks. He sighed in relief.

"Better," he asked softly, taking another sip.

"Mmm." Cas shrugged and the immediately groaned, clutching at his chest. "Fuck," he hissed.

Dean tensed but Cas waved him off.

"I'm fine. Stupid and a little buzzed, but fine. When does your friend get here?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe another fifteen minutes. More?" He held up the bottle and Cas nodded, throwing back his glass again. Dean's eyes latched onto his throat, following Cas' Adam's apple when he swallowed. He flushed and hurried to pour again, the liquid sloshing over the side of the glass in his haste.

"Maybe you've had enough," Cas joked, trying to catch Dean's eye. "_You_ okay?"

Dean set the bottle on the nightstand and rubbed a palm across his face. "Yes. No," he mumbled from behind his hand. Here was Cas, fucking _impaled_ by a piece of rusty metal, and _his_ pants were suddenly too tight because he was an asshole with no fucking shame.

"Dean?" Cas swayed a little and Dean reached over to steady him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Nothing, Cas. You're fucking hot, okay?"

Cas chuckled, eyes soft. "You've got it bad."

"You're telling me," Dean muttered, taking Cas' glass from him and downing the liquid himself. He closed his eyes against the fiery bite of the whiskey. He felt something nudge against his boot and looked down to find Cas smiling up at him.

"You're a real sweet talker, Dean Winchester," he said, holding out a hand. "And if I wasn't worried I might inadvertently stab you with my new appendage, I'd kiss the fuck out of you right now."

Dean grabbed the proffered hand and squeezed the fingers tight. "You're only saying that because you're a drunk fugitive and this could be your last night of freedom," he scoffed good-naturedly.

"Says the cop who got me drunk." Cas' words were beginning to slur and Dean smiled. _Sweet Jesus,_ he was gorgeous, all droopy blue eyes and flushed cheeks.

They were still staring at each other with silly matching grins when there was a loud rap at the door.

Dean unholstered his gun, pausing at the door to peer through the peephole. He sighed in relief and swung open the door with a wide grin.

"Dean fucking Winchester." The black man's voice boomed into the room. "As I live and breathe."

"Levon," Dean said, clasping the man in a hard and fast hug. He stepped aside to allow him room to cross the threshold, jerking when he saw the large red container of medical supplies on the ground beside the door, a brutal reminder of the reason behind his old friend's appearance. "Let me get that."

"Nah, I got it, Dean," Levon said, brushing Dean aside with a meaty paw. Levon Russell was six foot six inches of bulky muscle, skin as dark as good chocolate, his smooth bald head slick and shining in the midday sun. His navy t-shirt strained over his bulging chest and biceps.

Dean whistled. "Think you've gone a little soft, Levon."

Levon snorted, now standing at the end of the bed, studying the pale, dark-haired figure waiting there. He wagged a finger in Dean's direction. "I done told you boy, you don't want Levon to kick your ass. They'd be sorting the pieces of you for weeks."

Dean chuckled and crossed to stand between the beds, eyes shifting nervously between the two men. "Levon, this is my," he hesitated and felt his cheeks flush. "My best friend, Castiel. Cas, this is Levon, baddest ass motherfucker you never want to meet in a dark alley outside a Nashville bar."

"Unless you're getting the shit kicked out of you by some mangy hooker," Levon replied drily, one eyebrow rising toward his cleanly shaven skull.

Dean cleared his throat. "It was _two_ hookers, douchebag," he muttered.

Levon laughed, a joyful sound that bounced off the low roof. He set the red box at his feet. "I've missed you, Deano." He clamped his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean winced. He was never sure if Levon simply didn't know his own strength, or if he was fucking with Dean because it amused him.

"Now get the fuck outta my way so I can get a closer look at the mess your boyfriend got himself into."

Dean rolled his eyes, but allowed the man to swap places with him. He should have known he couldn't fool Levon, and that his old friend wouldn't give two shits about the fact that macho homicide detective extraordinaire, Dean Winchester, was fucking gone on a writer with an angel's face named Cas. Who just so happened to have a dick.

He hovered while Levon peeled the t-shirt back, gingerly touching the skin at the base of the metal strip.

"You did good, not removing it. Many a good soul have suffered a torn artery because someone yanked an impaled object free."

Dean shifted closer. "Artery," he asked weakly, worry evident in his voice. He focused on Cas' face, newly pale in the lamplight as Levon prodded the wound.

"Stop hovering," Levon intoned, kneeling in front of Cas. He reached into his kit and withdrew a measuring tape. He began to measure the wound and Cas' shoulder, chest and back.

"What are you doing," Dean asked, feeling utterly useless.

"Having tea with the Queen of England, what's it look like I'm doing?"

Dean bit his tongue on a retort. Levon's head was nearly to Dean's nipples and he was _on his knees. _The man cut an intimidating figure. Dean had no doubt he would totally kick his ass if he got in Levon's way. Oh, he would still treat Cas; he would just beat the shit out of Dean afterwards.

Levon set the measuring tape down and gazed solemnly into Cas' eyes. "You're a lucky fucker, you know that?"

Cas glanced at Dean, holding his gaze when he spoke. "I've had my fair share."

Dean's insides warmed.

Levon snorted. "I don't mean your grand gay love affair, Nancy." He pointed a large index finger at the oozing wound in Cas' chest. "I'm talking about this little piece you got poked with. It couldn't have been more carefully placed to do the least damage if it tried."

Dean exhaled a long breath. He felt a little dizzy from the relief pouring through him and he had to sit on the opposite bed.

Levon looked at him over his shoulder and shook his head, grinning. "Pussy."

"Shut up," Dean breathed, heart still racing. "So you can get it out?"

Levon frowned then and turned back to Cas. "It's going to hurt like a motherfucker. And it's going to be a really slow process; your subclavian artery is close enough to make me a little worried. I nick that and we're fucked."

The medical terminology rolled off of Levon's tongue like he was born saying it, and Dean remembered how his friend once told him all he had ever wanted to do was become a doctor. He had had to settle for the Army and EMT school instead; such was the life of a poor, black, country boy from Tennessee.

"Just do it," Cas said through gritted teeth.

Levon patted his knee. "Okay." He stood and gestured to the bottle on the nightstand. "Pour him another drink, hotshot. And make mine a double."

"No drinking on the job," Dean replied, steeling himself for Levon's wrath.

The other man surprised him with a jovial laugh. "Just testing you, Deano." He winked. "You passed." He disappeared into the bathroom and Dean could hear the tub running.

"What are you doing," Dean called. He shifted his feet nervously while he poured Cas another drink. Cas' face was grim when he accepted it. Dean wished like hell it was _him_ getting ready to have a razor-sharp piece of metal ripped through his chest; he would give anything to trade places with Cas right now.

"I'm guessing this is going to be a bit messy," Levon said wryly, poking his head around of the bathroom door. "Unless you want the cleaning lady to think a murder occurred here tonight and get yo ass into even _more_ trouble with the law up north."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Once again, Levon, Kansas is hardly_ north."_

"Well excuse me," Levon huffed from the bathroom, dragging the words into multiple syllables. "What do you want me to call it then, up middle? That sounds like a damn sex trick those internet porn stars advertise. Make yourself useful and bring the boyfriend in here."

Dean laughed, helping Cas to his feet. He pressed a quick kiss to Cas' dry lips. "I love you," he whispered into his ear.

Cas' mouth lazily grazed his cheek as he pulled away. His eyes were glassy now; he was well on his way to smashed.

"Bring my case, too," Levon ordered.

Dean sighed. "Can you make it, babe?"

Cas nodded but his movements were slow and jerky as he walked slowly around the bed to the bathroom door. Dean was glad when Levon came out and put a gentle arm around Cas' waist.

Even if it pricked a heated spark of jealousy deep in his gut at the same time.

Dean grabbed the large red case (it was heavier than it looked and he grunted when he lifted it), and the two bags of supplies he had purchased at the pharmacy, just in case.

Levon dug through the bags first, after helping Cas sit on the closed toilet.

"Should he take a couple of those," Dean asked, waving at the painkillers.

"Uh uh," Levon shook his head. "Blood thinner. We need him to clot."

Dean blanched.

"You're not gonna hurl are you? Because I might need your assistance and I _really_ don't want to do this with the smell of puke perfumin' the air."

Dean swallowed and shook his head. "No. I'm fine."

Cas smiled in spite of himself and Dean jabbed a finger in his direction.

"Not a word," he warned.

Cas held up a hand to pacify him, but Dean could see the way he bit his lip that he was holding back a grin.

Levon turned suddenly, having arranged a number of bottles, bandages and a suture kit on the sink's countertop.

"Take off your belt, Dean."

"Say what?" Dean's eyes bugged.

"So he can bite into it, dipshit. This ain't exactly going to be a picnic for Castiel. And the best I can do for painkiller is some hydrocodone the doc gave me for my back last time I threw it out."

Dean's eyes sparkled in merriment and he opened his mouth to comment, but slammed it shut at Levon's black look.

"I'd give you two now, let them get started workin', but mixed with that whiskey probably ain't the best course of action. It might make you nauseous. So I'm going to wait until _that's_ out." He held up a syringe filled with clear liquid. "Tetanus booster and a shot of antibiotic." He glanced at Dean. "Don't ask."

Dean held up his hands. "Nope." He caught the prescription bottle of pills on reflex when Levon tossed it to him. He read the label carefully and placed the bottle on the counter by the door.

"As soon as we've got him bandaged and he's ready for bed, give him two of them. Then every four to six hours for pain as he needs them."

Dean nodded.

"Ok then," Levon clapped his hands together. "Are we ready?"

"Oh shit," Cas muttered, closing his eyes. "I was really hoping I'd be passed out by now."

Levon chuckled. "Sorry, little buddy. The best I can promise is that I'll be as gentle as I can." His eyes were solemn when they met Cas'. "But look on the bright side: There's a good chance you'll pass out in the middle."

Levon was as good as his word. He and Dean cut the rest of Cas' shirt away and then Dean helped clean and disinfect the area surrounding the entry point, and another six inches outside of that. Levon instructed Dean to sit behind Cas on the toilet tank, hold his arms in place so he didn't inadvertently cause further damage by grabbing for the metal, or for Levon.

After that, it got bad.

Dean held on for all he was worth, Cas' entire body rigid with the agony of having the strip of metal slicing through his chest. It was brutally slow going; Levon was determined to keep the shard at the exact angle of entry, because it had so neatly missed any important veins, arteries, or bone. That didn't make it any easier on Cas, however, who ground his teeth against the leather between his lips, unable to stop the guttural groans that escaped.

He sagged back against Dean when Levon announced quietly, "Okay. It's out."

Dean couldn't have stood up if he tried. He held onto Cas, wrapped around him, face planted in the back of his neck, breathing deep the sour-tinged smell of sweat on Cas' skin.

Levon worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning and disinfecting the wound, then set about stitching it up, in two layers. He grunted when he was finished tying off the knots. "Lean back, Deano, he might need a stitch at the exit."

Dean had forgotten all about the smaller wound on Cas' back. It had bled at first, clotting to Cas' t-shirt, but all of the moving around from car to motel had forced the sliver of metal back through his chest enough the point had no longer protruded. The wound looked red and ugly, but mostly sealed now.

"Hmmm." Levon mumbled to himself. "I'll put a butterfly on it, just in case. Let me disinfect it."

Dean leaned back against the toilet tank, fingers still resting on Cas' hips. He watched Levon's large hands, so gentle and secure in their movements as they cleaned and bandaged the laceration on Cas' back.

Afterwards, he washed his hands in the sink, the bathroom silent save their joint breathing and the water rushing from the faucet. Levon dried his hands on a towel and grinned at Dean in the mirror.

"I'm proud of you, Winchester."

Dean laughed huskily. "Shut up, Levon."

"Take two of these painkillers, Cas. But lay off the booze for the rest of the night, okay?" He held out the bottle to Dean who took it with shaking fingers. "You, however, need a drink."

They helped Cas back into the bed, Levon turning away solicitously while Dean removed Cas' jeans. He turned back before Dean got him under the covers, however, and handed him a syringe.

"Uh uh," Dean shook his head. "No way."

Levon rolled his eyes. "Then scoot out of my way dickweed so your boy don't get tetanus."

Dean moved aside, and he closed his eyes when Levon plunged the needle into Cas' bare hip. Cas mumbled a protest into his pillow.

"You'll thank me when your jaw don't lock up permanently," Levon chuckled. He smoothed the sheet back up over Cas' chest, and Dean smiled when his friend brushed a hand over Cas' hair.

"Thank you, Levon."

The other man shrugged. "I owed you."

"No, you didn't."

Levon smiled a sad smile. "Yeah, I did, but no matter. We're on an even playing field now." He walked back to the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. "I'm going to clean up in here. You pour me that drink, you hear?"

Dean nodded. He grabbed the bottle of Jack and poured them each two fingers. He shook two pills from the prescription bottle and opened the bottled water provided on the nightstand from their 'hostess, Mary Ann'. He supposed that was a fancy way of saying 'maid'. _Thank you, Mary Ann,_ he thought, pouring Cas a glass of water.

"Cas," he murmured, smoothing a hand down his exposed arm. "Take these, baby, before you go to sleep."

"Mmnph," Cas' face was still smashed against his pillow, where he had turned over for Levon's shot.

"Just one swallow, and I swear I'll leave you alone," Dean cajoled.

Cas moaned lightly, rolling gingerly up on an elbow. His eyelids were at half-mast, and it was sexier than it had any right to be, especially since his entire left shoulder was covered in gauze and bandages. "That's a likely story, coming from you."

It took Dean a minute to get the joke and he snorted. "Crude, Cas. Glad to see your sense of humor is intact." He handed him the pills, scooting closer so he could hold him up while he sipped the water.

When Cas had settled against the pillow again, Dean leaned over and kissed him softly. It was a kiss full of apology and despair and longing; everything Dean had felt today pulsing between them. When he pulled away, Cas was smiling. "What?"

"You're the best fucking kisser of life."

Dean laughed softly. "Man, you're drunk off your ass. But I'll take the compliment." He squeezed Cas' hand. "Go to sleep. I'm going to help Levon clean up."

...

Dean stood at the door, trying to think of a way to thank his old friend; he may have just saved Cas' life. That meant they _weren't_ even; Dean would owe Levon forever for that.

"Stop whatever damned fool notion you've got rolling around in your head like a bunch of rocks," Levon warned, noting the look in Dean's eyes. "Just take care of yourself." He nodded toward the sleeping figure in the bed. "And Cas. Call me if you need anything."

Dean clasped his hand, pulling the larger man into a hard hug. "Thanks, Levon." He slapped his back a few times, good, hard thumps. "You big old softie," he couldn't help throwing in.

"Don't push it, Winchester," Levon growled, but he winked as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Dean stood between the beds and uncapped the whiskey. He sat down on the empty second mattress, taking a pull from the bottle. He watched Cas sleep for several long moments, the rise and fall of his chest soothing in its even rhythm. His skin was pale above the sheet, even against the white of the bandage.

Dean's skin prickled with awareness and he glanced up a few inches to find smoky blue eyes staring back at him.

"You should c'mere," Cas whispered, words still slurring from the whiskey and the hydrocodone.

Dean took another drink and capped the bottle. He shucked his jeans when he stood and peeled his t-shirt over his head, flipping the lamp's switch to the _off _position. He went around the bed and slid under the covers, moving carefully into place against Cas' warm body.

"I'd really like to fuck you right now," Cas murmured, eyes falling closed again.

Dean huffed into his shoulder, lips mouthing the jut of the joint, trailing down the smooth skin of his bicep. "Is that the whiskey or the pills talking?"

"No, it's my dick." Cas managed around a yawn. His fingers skated across Dean's stomach when he reached between them, making the muscles jump and quiver. He found Dean's hand and laced their fingers. "And it's my heart," he whispered.

Dean squeezed his hand. "Both of mine are in complete agreement," he said quietly, kissing Cas' temple. "But just sleep for a few hours. We need to get back on the road."

Dean waited until Cas' breathing had evened out, his mouth falling open slightly, lips slack, before he carefully got out of bed. He pulled his jeans back on and dug a pen and pad of paper from the corner desk's small drawer. He wasn't going to sleep, he was too wired up; he might as well get to work.

He texted Sam after turning his phone on silent, relieved when his brother immediately texted back. He left the motel room quietly and stood barefoot in the parking lot, staring up at the stars and letting his baby brother vent, worry and fear and frustration heavy in his voice. Dean caught him up on Melanie's grave and Cas' injury. They ended the call no closer to solving anything than when it had started, but both feeling better with the connection. Dean promised Sam they would get this bastard, told him to just hang on.

When he went back into the room, he sat back at the desk. He began to draw a timeline, jotting down the all of the facts as Cas had given them to him, trying to find a pattern, thinking of Melanie Bodine and all of the young women pinned to a corkboard in a storage building in Lawrence, Kansas.

And now, Jess' photo had become one of those; her smiling face on the wall of a precinct somewhere, becoming _the victim,_ possibly just a number to some of those who would work her case. She would be stripped down to the barest details of her identity: hair and eye color, height, weight, hobbies, profession.

Jess was a statistic now, and Dean by God was going to do everything in his power to get her back.

He looked back to the sleeping man. No. _They_ were going to get her back. Cas was the key to this puzzle. Dean just had to find the lock.

...


	13. Chapter 13

...

Dean unlocked the motel door, pushing it open quietly with one hand. In his other he held a drink carrier, a fast food bag squeezed precariously between his fingers. The bed was empty and he felt a rush of panic.

"Cas?" He kicked the door behind him and hastily set the bag and drinks on the desk.

"In here." Cas' head appeared around the bathroom door. His eyes were bleary and the bandage on his shoulder showed fresh blood.

Dean crossed the room in a few, long strides, hands immediately reaching for Cas when he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"What are you doing out of bed," he fretted, trying not to let the way Cas sagged against him worry him overmuch.

"I thought," Cas hesitated, grimacing.

"You thought I left." It explained the hard determination Dean could see on Cas' face, easing now that Dean was here, holding him up, soothing his back in small circles. "You should know better."

Cas huffed a breathless laugh. "You should learn to leave a note.

Dean smiled in return, willing his heart to settle into a more peaceful rhythm. "Okay. Your point." He allowed himself one quick brush of lips to Cas' cheek, nuzzling his ear before he straightened. "But only because you're injured and I feel sorry for you. Back to bed."

"I'm fine," Cas said automatically, but he allowed Dean to hover while they returned to the bed, palm warm and flat at the center of his back. He leaned against the pillows Dean stacked up in front of the headboard.

Dean frowned as he watched him, worried. Cas' pallor seemed to be back in full force and his upper lip glistened with tiny beads of sweat. "Your shoulder is bleeding," he noted grimly.

"I wrenched it a little, when I tried to put a shirt on."

"Which is why you should have stayed in bed and waited for me," Dean grumbled, walking to the table and grabbing the food and coffee. He brought it to the bed, sitting gingerly at the foot and passing a steaming, lidded cup to Cas.

"And again, next time, leave a fucking note_._" Cas took a sip of the coffee, wincing. "It's black," he objected, but when he glanced up, Dean was already passing creamer and sugar packets.

When Cas smiled, surprised pleasure transforming his face, Dean groaned. "Aw now, don't do that. I'm trying to be pissed off that you likely tore your stitches and _I'm_ going to get my ass kicked when I have to call Levon to patch you back up."

Cas continued to smile, ripping open every creamer and sugar Dean had given him and dumping them all into his coffee. He held out a hand and Dean passed him a tiny plastic stir stick. He sighed happily when he finally took another sip. "Better."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know how you manage to make stirring so damn sexy," he grumbled, taking a sip from his own mug.

Cas looked at him over the rim of his cup. His tongue darted out to catch a creamy brown drip.

"_Cas_," Dean warned, both hating and loving the way his stomach fluttered with interest. Not only did they _not_ have time for Dean to investigate the other things that tongue could do, Cas' face was still far too pale for his liking.

"_Dean._"

Dean groaned inwardly at the deep, husky timbre of Cas' voice. He was on the verge of giving in, to hell with stitches and food and _whatever else_ they were supposed to be doing right now, when Cas relented, dropping his gaze to the bag Dean had beside him. "Please tell me you have a vial of morphine in that sack."

Dean stood. "How bad is it? Did you take your pills?" He was already halfway to the bathroom, before Cas could answer.

"Not yet, I was on my way to find them when you got here." He accepted the two pills when Dean returned and swallowed them dutifully with a mouthful of coffee.

Dean sat next to him, perching precariously on the edge next to his hips, his former seat at the foot of the bed entirely too far away for his liking.

"You should probably eat." He reached for the food bag and pulled out a paper-wrapped biscuit with sausage. "Best hangover cure ever," he said with a smirk, passing the sandwich over.

"I'm hungover all right," Cas complained. "My head is pounding, my stomach is rolling." He sniffed the biscuit gingerly, frowning before he took a small bite. He chewed and swallowed before he continued. "And my shoulder is on fucking fire."

Dean scooted closer, one arm crossing over Cas' legs to rest on the bed beside his thigh. It gave him some much-needed proximity, his body craving whatever it was that Cas had always been able to provide. "Sorry I got you drunk?" He winked, cheeky grin contradicting the sincerity of the words.

Cas narrowed his eyes. "You don't look sorry."

Dean shook his head, eyes turning serious when he dipped his head to brush his lips along the edge of the white bandage. "I am." He straightened, cocking his head at Cas' expression.

"What."

"Nothing," Cas murmured. He tilted his sandwich toward Dean's face, and Dean took the offered bite.

They ate the rest of the food in a companionable silence, and then Dean helped Cas to the bathroom to check his dressing. He frowned when he removed the gauze wrapping and found the sterile pad covering the stitches was bloodier than he would have liked.

"You were moving around too much," he admonished. Cas was sitting on the toilet, Dean standing between his legs while he worked.

Cas winced when Dean peeled the gauze pad away. "You mentioned that already. Nine or ten times."

"Yeah, well, you're an idiot. It bears repeating."

Cas chuckled. "You have such sweet pillowtalk, baby." He placed his hands on the back of Dean's thighs and Dean jumped.

"Hey," he rebuked softly. "No manhandling the doctor."

Cas grinned, running his right hand a little higher until he cupped one cheek. "But Doctor..."

"Cas," Dean warned again, fingers gentle and light as they smoothed antibiotic ointment over the ugly, reddened sutures. The skin surrounding the wound was a pink circular patch of inflamed tissue. It would bear watching; Dean wondered if he had any antibiotics stored in the medicine cabinet at home. They could be back in Lawrence by early evening, if they left right away.

He carefully covered the wound with a fresh gauze pad and reached behind him for a new roll of dressing, forcing Cas' hand to fall away. He smiled to himself when Cas immediately grabbed his ass again when he turned back.

"You're a terrible patient."

"I can't help myself, Dr. Winchester. You're the hottest surgeon on the ward," Cas crooned, massaging Dean's butt cheek.

"Stop that," Dean ordered softly, flustered and _goddammit,_ dick twitching in excited hopefulness. His hands were a little shaky as he wrapped the gauze in a crisscross pattern around Cas' shoulder and under his arm.

Cas chuckled and dropped his hand, waiting patiently for Dean to finish.

Dean frowned down at him, not trusting his virtuous expression.

"I don't like that look in your eyes." He fastened a strip of sterile tape over the ends of the dressing.

"What," Cas asked innocently.

"What," Dean mimicked. "You're a goddamn fucking tease, Castiel Novak, that's what. You always were." He carefully pressed the last piece of tape in place, startling Cas when he loomed close, grabbing his jaw tight in his fingers. Dean kissed him hard, plunging his tongue into Cas' mouth.

When he stood, he felt vindicated that Cas' cheeks were flushed, his eyes a little glassy. "Now be a good patient and go lie down for a little while, let Dr. Dean take a shower."

Cas' good arm had migrated tight around his waist and he held Dean fast against him. "One more," he whispered, lifting his face.

Dean obliged, lingering, nibbling at Cas' lips until he sighed in contentment.

"You're the best medicine," Cas murmured.

Dean snorted softly, straightening again. "And you're high." He helped Cas to his feet, patting his butt when he pushed him out the door. "Go lie down."

Dean enjoyed an extra hot, extra long shower. He took care of his sexual frustration perfunctorily, closing his eyes and focusing on the dark, handsome head lying in the room next to him. It might not have been the most enjoyable method of ridding himself of the problem currently hampering his investigative focus, but it served its purpose and he felt more clearheaded and relaxed when he turned off the taps.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and left the steamy bathroom.

Cas was sprawled across the unused bed, snoring lightly. His color was ten times better and his face seemed years younger. Dean smiled, wistful. _God,_ he loved him.

Cas had asked for a note the next time he left, reassurance that Dean was coming back. Dean hadn't left one because in his mind it was unnecessary. He was never leaving. He knew it would take some time before Cas believed that, but for Dean, that moment in the woods when he had heard Cas cry out in pain had solidified it for him. In one swift, terrifying flash of clarity, Dean knew what it was to fear losing Cas for good.

The feeling was a thousand times worse than the neverending frustration of Cas living a lie across town for five years.

Dean was, simply put, never leaving again. He'd handcuff the stubborn bastard to his goddamn right arm if he had to, but he and Cas were in it for life now. Dean was wholly and completely fed up with the alternative.

He dug through his duffle, dropping the towel and dressing as quietly possible. He could allow Cas to sleep for a few more minutes before they got back on the road. He sat at the desk and studied his timeline and notes from the night before, thinking of sweet Jess' face, wondering where she was and how she might be holding up.

When he had talked to Sam this morning on his breakfast run, Sam still hadn't heard a word from Jess or the kidnapper. Dean assured him that that might not be as bad as it felt; according to what Cas had told him about the Novak's previous victims, Jess was probably being held somewhere, but if patterns held, she was alive. It had given Sam a much-needed sense of hope, even if it couldn't dull the urgency or fear.

Sam had also told him that Cas' brother Gabriel had essentially vanished off the face of the earth the day he ran away. No trace of him was ever found. Dean knew from experience that no one could _really_ vanish, and something told him that Cas knew more about Gabe's disappearance than he was letting on. The first conversation they were having when Cas awoke would hopefully answer a question that had been plaguing Dean: What had really happened the night Gabe left home?

...

_July 2, 1993_

"Cas." The whispered voice jerked Cas from a troubled sleep. He had barely been back in his bed an hour; he had fallen asleep at Dean's again and had to sneak out of the other boy's bedroom, sliding carefully out from under his heavy bicep to do so. He had stood in the moonlit room, looking down at Dean's handsome face for a long time afterward. Dean had frowned in his sleep, the hand that had previously been wrapped tight around Cas' waist twitching with its sudden emptiness.

Cas wanted nothing more than to crawl back into that embrace, a heated, confusing, infinitely desired position...yet ultimately too dangerous. He understood that all of his family, perhaps save Anna, who he and Gabe had succeeded in shielding from the majority of their family's darker secrets, knew of his feelings for Dean. With Gabe, by nature of being the closest to Cas, having the greatest understanding of just how entwined the two boys' lives, and hearts, were. But now Michael had picked up on _something,_ and Cas was forced to uneasily consider his options: stay away from Dean in order to protect him (not really an option at all, since Cas thought it was possible he wouldn't survive without Dean), or continue as they had been, friends with the teasing possibility of more, sticking close enough that _hopefully,_ Cas could discern when or if Michael made a move.

Cas would kill him.

He knew he should probably feel more remorse or shame over that. Instead, he had welcomed the thought before bending low and brushing his lips to Dean's temple, smiling when the boy snuffled in his sleep, whispering Cas' name into his pillow.

"Are you awake?" Gabe stepped over the threshold, closing the door silently behind him, movements stealthy.

Cas sat up on an elbow and rubbed a tired palm across his bleary eyes. "I am now," he complained.

"Shh," Gabe shushed him, holding a finger to his mouth.

Cas saw the bag slung over Gabe's shoulder and noted his brother was fully dressed. "Where are you going?"

Gabe sat on the edge of his bed, letting the bag fall silently to the carpet. "I'm leaving, Cas."

They studied each other in the dark. Gabe was four years older than Castiel, and at nineteen, it was probably a miracle he hadn't left before now. Cas had always been utterly grateful for whatever had kept him tethered here; Gabe had been his buffer, and his savior, too many times to count.

"I wish I could take you with me," Gabe whispered when Cas didn't reply. "But you know he'd only come after us. At least if it's me alone, I might have a shot."

Cas' eyes fell to the sheet wrapped around his legs, pinning him to the bed under Gabe's weight. He tried not to feel claustrophobic by the thought.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Gabe huffed a laugh. "Why are you apologizing? God, Cas," he shook his head. "I should be apologizing to _you._"

Cas' eyes flew to his face. "What? Why? You're the only reason I made it this far, you know that," he said earnestly, one hand clasping Gabe's wrist.

Gabe smiled sadly. "No, Castiel. I'm the reason you're here."

An icy dread settled over Cas and he withdrew his hand. He knew unequivocally that he did not want to hear whatever Gabe was going to tell him, but he was frozen, unable to escape, fear warring with a fierce desire to know the truth, a truth that had eluded him all his life.

"Tell me."

Gabe swallowed hard. "I tell you this, Cas, and you have to swear to me, you'll never breathe a word of it to another soul, not even Dean." He reached over and gripped Cas' fingers tightly between his. "Your lives depend on that, Cas. Yours, the Winchesters...this never leaves this room, okay?"

Cas nodded once, palms suddenly clammy with sweat and fear.

Gabe blinked rapidly, and Cas wondered if he was fighting tears. His strong, independent older brother, the one with the rakish sense of humor, overprotective to a fault; that he would cry made Cas even more nervous to hear his words.

"You were four years old when you came here," Gabe said softly.

Cas frowned. _Four years old..._ Gabe's words tumbled over themselves in his head, their implication dark and frighteningly bleak.

Gabe squeezed his hand again. "You were four, and I saw you playing in a park. We were in Michigan then. It was my job to find you, find someone at any rate, the right age. God," Gabe laughed darkly. "I was eight fucking years old, Cas, and I was sent out on recon to find another _angel,_" he spat the word and Cas flinched.

"I don't understand." Cas thought he might be on the verge of hyperventilating. _Fuck,_ what Gabe was telling him, if what he was saying were true...Castiel was not a Novak.

Cas was not a Novak.

"He kidnapped you," Gabe said bluntly. "Alistair. We drove three days, crossing the Midwest, hiding our tracks, using disguises. I think my hair color changed three times before we made it to Detroit."

"Why," Cas whispered, head spinning.

Gabe shrugged. "I don't know, I think it's how he got all of us."

They sat in silence, one struggling to absorb the new information, the other letting go of the guilt from keeping the secret for years.

"Your name was Jimmy," Gabe said softly. "I don't remember your last name, but your mother was beautiful. You have her eyes."

Cas looked up sharply. "You," he swallowed. "You saw my mother? What? How?" His head was spinning; he had always been told their mother, _their mother,_ had ran away after giving birth to Anna.

Gabe's features turned stony. "He took your mother too," he said quietly. "She caught me, as I was leading him, _you,_ away from the swings. We almost made it, she was nearly too late." He trailed off, eyes faraway. "Then Alistair pulled up in the truck and Michael and Lucifer jumped out of the back, grabbed both of you, all three of us." His voice broke and he dropped his head to his hands, covering his face.

Cas scooted close, wrapped his arms around him. "It's okay," he soothed, even though it wasn't. He was reeling from everything Gabe had said.

Gabe's shaking subsided after a few minutes, and when he lifted his head, his eyes were dry. Cas let his arms fall to his sides and the two brothers studied each other for a long moment. "You're sixteen," Gabe whispered.

Cas frowned. "What?"

"You're a year older than you think," Gabe smiled wistfully. "You were so pretty, those gorgeous baby blues. Alistair only gave me one instruction: _I want blue eyes this time_." Gabe shrugged. "Yours were the prettiest eyes I had ever seen."

Cas felt sick.

Gabe continued. "Unfortunately, I fucked it all up anyway. Your face was too distinctive, those eyes too memorable. We had to keep you hidden for months before Alistair trusted someone wouldn't recognize you. When it was time for you to go to school, he made you a year younger."

"Dean," Cas whispered.

Gabe nodded. "Dean." He laughed, and the sound was too loud in the dark room. "That's the fucking irony, isn't it? If he hadn't lied about your age, you would never have met Dean and you would probably be the favored son by now. _God,_ Michael would probably be as dead as Lucifer."

Cas flinched. Lucifer's death was something they never mentioned, ever. Gabe had shielded Cas from the worst of it, but Cas still remembered the older boy's screams, and to this day he avoided the northeast corner of their wide backyard, where he knew the bones were buried deep beneath the earth. He had never known what had caused Alistair's wrath that night, but he knew it had something to do with Michael's sudden popularity with their father. He had always wondered who had dealt the final blow.

To the rest of the world, Lucifer had simply gone to live with their mother. No one questioned it. Cas had learned when he was very young that most people would rather look away, assuming the best instead of the darkness their instincts warned them about.

Unless you were Mary Winchester. Mary had questioned plenty over the years, and while Cas had always been grateful to her for her love and surrogate mothering, he had also known since he was seven (_eight?_) that Mary Winchester had his back.

It had been a particularly bad week. Alistair and Michael had had a girl in the basement rooms for days, and her weak cries when Cas was forced to bring her food at night gave him nightmares. He wasn't sleeping, and it was taking its toll, deep, dark circles rimming his sunken eyes. It was a Thursday when he had had enough. He climbed out of his window and carefully navigated the white lattice against the siding; it was a cheerful sight in the spring, climbing wisteria full of purple, fragrant blooms. Cas used it as an escape route more and more, sometimes climbing the tree outside of Dean's bedroom and talking to him through the window until they were both yawning, unable to stay awake.

That night he had escaped to the Winchester's back porch. Mary had baked a pie that afternoon. Cas had smelled it, the sweet apple, cinnamon, and vanilla wafting across the backyard as he and Dean had kicked a soccer ball back and forth. Walking across the yard in the darkness, Cas craved the homey scent so closely associated in his mind with kitchens and families and love. He sat on the stoop, arms wrapped around his knees, shivering in the cold, unable to completely escape the girl's pleas ringing in his ears.

He jumped when the door opened behind him.

"Castiel," Mary asked softly. "Sweetie, what are you doing out this late?" She crouched next to him on the stoop, one hand gently pushing back the dark locks of hair from his forehead. "Oh, baby," she murmured, heartbreak evident in her voice as she took in his disheveled exhaustion. "Come on," she said, gathering him close and leading him inside.

She cut him a sliver of pie and poured a glass of milk, sitting next to him at the table while he ate it slowly. She didn't speak, didn't question him, just stroked his arm or his back, smiling at him with a sad openness in her eyes.

When he pushed the empty plate away, he whispered, "Thank you."

Her smile was genuine when she shrugged nonchalantly. "I like a piece of midnight pie myself sometimes." She slid the glass nearer his hand. "Drink your milk."

Cas did, watching her rinse his plate and fork in the sink, drying her hands on a red-checkered dishcloth, a cheery spot of color against the white laminate countertop.

"How about a story," she asked when he was finished.

Cas sighed in relief. She wasn't going to make him go home yet. "Okay."

When he sat in the corner of the sofa, his usual position while he and Dean watched cartoons after school, she scooted in close to him, a few books in her hands. She held them out, letting him choose. Cas flushed when he chose _The Little Prince_, but Mary smiled. "My favorite."

She cuddled him close, wrapping an arm around him until he was held fast against her side, his head against her breast. Cas listened to her soothing voice read the words of the narrator, savoring his favorite line when it fell from her lips: _One sees clearly only with the heart._ He drifted to sleep sometime before the end, before the prince and narrator bid farewell.

When he awoke the next morning, he was still on the couch, covered in a warm, handmade quilt, his head resting on _his_ pillow, the one usually stored at the foot of Dean's bed. His father's voice had startled him awake, deceivingly dulcet tones in conversation with Mary in the kitchen.

"I didn't want to wake you, since he was sleeping so peacefully," Mary was saying quietly.

"Quite all right," Alistair murmured. He looked to the door when Cas appeared. "You gave me quite a fright, young man."

Cas flinched at the hard glitter in his father's cold eyes. "I'm sorry, father," he whispered, gaze falling to the linoleum.

"I think he was sleepwalking, to be honest." Mary's laugh sounded forced, too jovial. "I'm glad I was still up to fetch him. It was entirely too cold for him to be wandering around alone outside."

Cas thought he could detect something in her voice, but he couldn't decipher it, nor the tension that loomed in the room. He shrank away; he knew how violently his father could react when confronted, especially by a woman.

"Castiel is well cared for," Alistair said, quiet but firm.

He and Mary stared at one another.

The moment broke when Alistair stood. "Come, Castiel." His fingers bit into Cas' shoulder when he pushed him out of the door and Cas winced. Alistair turned to Mary before he stepped off of the ledge. "Have I ever mentioned that I have several homes, all over the country? It's quite amazing, really, that we have settled here for so long. I suppose your Dean would miss young Castiel, were we to relocate."

Mary's eyes hardened and her smile was cold. "_I_ would miss Castiel, as would we all. He is part of our family."

Alistair smiled slowly. "Well, I don't have any immediate plans for such now. One never knows though, do they?" He cocked his head. "Thank you again, Mrs. Winchester."

"Goodbye, Cas," she said softly stepping forward to hug him, dropping a warm kiss to his cheek. "I love you," she whispered into his ear.

Cas had thought of that encounter many times over the years. He had often wondered how many ways Mary Winchester had saved him, how many times he wasn't aware of, if there were a number large enough to quantify it.

She was his mother, the only one he had ever known. At least the only one he could remember.

"What happened to my mother," Cas whispered.

"Cas," Gabe shook his head, sighing. "I don't know. The usual, I guess. Thank God I was still young, barely eight. They weren't making make me help yet." He drew a shuddering breath. "She cried for you, for days. Then Alistair stopped letting me bring her food. She begged me to get you out, help you escape. She never," Gabe stopped, holding a fist to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.

Cas watched a tear track down his cheek.

"She never asked for help, only for you. She begged me to save you." Gabe shrugged miserably. "I tried, baby brother. All of these years, I did my best."

Cas grabbed Gabe in a hard hug, holding him tight. "You did. You _did._"

...

_Present_

"And you never heard from him again?" Dean chanced a look at Cas in the passenger seat. They had been driving for just under an hour. Cas seemed to be holding up so far, but his expression was pinched, tight around his eyes. "It might be important, Cas."

"No," Cas said quietly. "I thought after I left home, maybe, or after the house burned and everyone was gone..." he trailed off.

"Maybe Alistair did find him," Dean speculated quietly. He didn't miss Cas' flinch. He waited, watching the asphalt disappear under the hood of the impala.

"I have always liked imagining he was on a beach somewhere, drinking something with rum and an umbrella," Cas said wistfully. "I was glad that one of us escaped."

Dean reached for Cas' hand and Cas gripped it tight against his denim-clad thigh. "Did you ever try to find your family? Figure out who you were?" Dean's mind was still whirling from the new information. He was sickened by a latent awareness of how truly shocking Cas' early life had been; just when Dean thought he had a grasp of the gruesomeness, he was confronted with some new tidbit of information that spiraled him even further into despair. And he hadn't been the one forced to live through it.

He squeezed Cas' hand a little bit tighter.

"Yes," Cas said, looking out of the passenger window at the rapidly fading scenery. "My parents were from a suburb in Detroit. My mother had driven me into the city that day for a routine checkup." He looked over at Dean and smiled sadly. "I had no siblings, and my father died in a car accident less than a year after we disappeared. It's probably how our missing persons case went off the grid so quickly."

"You researched this all on your own, without telling me." Dean knew he shouldn't feel slighted, but he had spent his life as an investigator, not to mention the person who had loved and been loved by Cas for most of their lives. Cas could have trusted him.

"Dean," Cas murmured. "Don't."

Dean shifted uneasily on the seat. "I can't help it," he said, the agony of lost moments, missed chances weighing heavily on him. "We could have done this together, it might have changed everything."

Cas closed his eyes wearily and laid his head against the headrest. "I know. I've been telling myself that since the moment I walked in and found Daphne."

"Cas," Dean said worriedly. "I didn't mean that. That's _not_ your fault."

"Isn't it?" He rolled his head to the left, peering at Dean from beneath his lashes. "Isn't all of this really my fault? Doesn't it all boil back down to that singular moment the summer we were fifteen, when I gave in and let myself kiss you?"

"_I _kissed _you_," Dean reminded him, squeezing his fingers again. "And no. It doesn't. Even without that moment, we still would have ended up right here. Together. It's who we are."

Cas studied him, the afternoon sun causing Dean to squint, the narrow furrow between his brow beloved for its sameness on his strong, masculine face. He would love Dean Winchester until the day he died, and even after that, whatever part of him was left in the universe would go on loving him until the end of time. "Would we," he asked hopefully, letting himself consider, for the first time maybe in his entire life that Dean felt the same, would always feel the same.

"Yes," Dean said with conviction. He smiled at him before returning his gaze to the road. "You and I are—" He shifted again, cheeks flushing. "Okay this is going to sound incredibly gay," he muttered, flustered.

Cas chuckled, chest inflating with a sudden effervescent warmth. "Then by all means, say it."

"Right," Dean grumbled, clearing his throat. He snuck another glance, enjoying like hell the soft smile on Cas' face. "You're my soul mate. For lack of a better word. And I, for one, am done running from it."

Cas bit his lip, wondering how the fuck he had gotten so lucky in the middle of the apocalyptic state of his life. "Me too," he whispered.

Dean pulled his hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. "Good," he said gruffly. "Now shut up and stop looking at me like that before I have to stop the car."

Cas laughed again, but closed his eyes, praying that wherever Gabe was, he was safe. And that wherever Michael was, Cas could stay one step ahead of him.

...


	14. Chapter 14

_**Author's Note:**__ I feel like I should apologize for this one in advance. Oh gosh. I promise, the next chapter will come quickly, this one had to break here. You still trust me, right?_

_..._

Dean had to stop mid-afternoon, halfway across Missouri, when Cas' face began to show the strain of the long drive.

"Dean, we don't have time." Cas grimaced when he struggled to remove his seatbelt. They were parked at a rest area.

Dean reached across the seat and gently untangled the belt webbing from Cas' injured arm.

"We can spare a few minutes. I need to stretch my legs."

"No you don't." Cas sighed. "The longer we wait—"

"We're not waiting. We're stretching my legs and getting you a cold bottle of water so you can take your pain meds."

"I don't need them. I want to stay focused," Cas argued, and Dean rolled his eyes at the set of his jaw.

"Don't get all stubborn and pouty on me now. I need you to take your pills like a good boy so I can concentrate on driving. The quicker we get back to Lawrence, the quicker we find Jess." Dean climbed out and slammed the driver's side door. He took a deep breath. He wasn't really mad at Cas, he was worried. Worried the shoulder was damaged more than Levon could effectively detect in a crappy motel room in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee; worried that Jess was suffering, every passing minute increasing her torment. Worried that they wouldn't be able to stop him, Michael (assuming Cas was right about the identity of the killer), and that no matter how careful they were, how prepared, it still boiled down to a single, undeniable fact: this had always been about Cas. And Dean could still lose him.

He jumped when Cas leaned against the hood beside him.

"I'll watch the car if you want to take a walk," Cas said quietly.

Dean tilted his head in his direction, squinting against the bright day. "I can lock it." He slid one hand around Cas' elbow carefully, gently pulling. "Besides, what kind of asshole boyfriend would I be if I left you out here alone. Looking all handsome and delicious."

Cas snorted softly, letting Dean shift him closer, the space separating them reducing until it was nonexistent. "Delicious?"

Dean shrugged, fighting a grin. "If the shoe fits."

"Hopefully you're the kind who recognizes his _delicious,_" Cas wiggled his eyebrows, "boyfriend is about to bean him with a rock if he doesn't stop hovering?"

"This isn't hovering." Dean grinned broadly, turning to slide a knee neatly between Cas' open and relaxed stance. He settled his weight against him, pinning him to the car, careful to avoid the injured shoulder. "_This _is hovering." He nuzzled Cas' temple.

"My apologies," Cas murmured, brushing his lips across Dean's.

Dean's mouth parted, tongue darting out to taste, but Cas slanted his head away.

Dean groaned. "You're a fucking _monster._"

Cas chuckled and pushed Dean back before holding out a hand. "Let's stretch our legs, Winchester."

Dean took it, relishing the firm, warm grip of Cas' fingers and ignoring the sidelong looks they drew from a family leaving the restrooms. They looked like your typical Midwesterners: mom, dad, two point five kids, a dog. Dean smiled to himself, thinking the vacationers had gotten more culture than they bargained for at this little rest stop on I-44. He winked at _Dad_ who looked away, flustered.

He bought a soda and two bottles of water from a vending machine while he waited for Cas to finish in the men's room. He passed a water and two pills to him when he emerged, accompanied by a stern look.

"Okay, okay," Cas rolled his eyes. He threw the pills back and chased them with a long pull from the bottle. "Satisfied?"

"No," Dean sighed dramatically and Cas laughed.

"Touché." He grabbed Dean's t-shirt front and pulled him down for a hard kiss, a sweet, swift tangle of lips and tongue.

Dean's head was still spinning when Cas turned and sauntered away. "Bastard," he muttered, scowling at Cas' perfect ass he trailed him across the freshly mown grass between the restroom facilities and the parking lot.

Back in the car, Dean fiddled with the radio before navigating the impala onto the interstate. Most of the drive to Lawrence would be state highways from here, so this would be the last bit of 'straight stretch' for a while. Hopefully Cas would be able to sleep and Dean could listen to some tunes and clear his mind.

He was lightly humming along to _What It Takes,_ by Aerosmith, (fitting, he thought to himself, amused), when Cas' hand found his thigh. His eyes darted over to the passenger seat. "I thought you were sleeping."

Cas smiled, tugging at Dean's forearm until Dean relented, dropping his hand into Cas' upturned palm. "This song is not about us, Dean."

Dean flushed. Mind-reading asshole. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"If you want to define our relationship with Aerosmith, I much prefer _Angel_."

Dean bit his lip, hiding his smile, wondering if the happy flutter of his heart was somehow visible on his face. "That's because you're a sap."

Cas grinned and closed his eyes again. "Says the man who once dedicated _Faithfully_ by Journey to me. Live. On the radio."

"I thought we were never bringing that up again," Dean said under his breath.

"_Highway run... into the midnight sun_," Cas sang softly.

"Oh shut up," Dean grumbled, but his smile was so wide it hurt and if he gripped the fingers entwined with his a little too tightly, Cas didn't complain.

...

Jess sat up when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Jessica," Michael nodded in her direction, leaning against the bars of the cell. He held a dark bag in his hand. "How would you feel about getting some fresh air this afternoon?"

Jess refused to respond, heart racing, wondering desperately if this was it, the hour she would lose her life, leave Sam forever.

Michael unlocked the door and stepped inside. He pulled a knitted stocking cap from the bag and held it out. "I thought your head might be a bit chilly."

Jess ignored him but her eyes were glued to the bag, and to the knife strapped to his belt. It winked at her in the overhead lights.

"You can sit up front," he sing-songed, wiggling the hat. "Take the hat, angel. Take the hat and keep me company. I must admit, I've been a little more lonely with you than I have been with my usual guests."

Jess met his eyes then, narrowing her gaze on his face. His expression was unreadable.

Except for the part where he was irrefutably insane.

"I'd rather rot in this cell." Her voice was rusty from disuse.

Michael chuckled. "I thought you might say that. See how well we're getting to know each other?" His hands were whip quick, pouncing on her wrists and pinning her to the bed. He frowned when he saw the bruising along her hand where he had broken the narrow bone. "I suppose I should apologize. That looks painful."

He held her slim wrists in one hand while he wrested a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. She stopped struggling when he had her cuffed, and lay silent under him, trying to calm her breathing, not wanting to excite him with her fear.

"There," he murmured. He released her and she flinched when he reached forward, but he only slid the cap into place over her newly shorn head. He laughed softly. "Well, hair stylist is most definitely not a suitable career path for me it would seem." He chucked Jess under the chin and she had to withhold the urge to bite him.

"You're still the most lovely creature I think I've ever had the pleasure of possessing," he whispered.

Maybe she should have recognized his intent before he pressed his lips to hers, tongue forcing its way into her mouth, but he hadn't touched her since she'd arrived and she'd grown complacent. She gagged, trying to push him away, attempting to wrench her head back, failing as he held her face firmly against his, palms flat against her cheeks.

She gasped when he finally lifted his head, her eyes burning with a hatred so deep she could feel it poisoning every cell in her body. "I'm going to kill you," she said coldly.

Michael smiled, wiping his mouth gingerly. "Not if I kill you first."

...

Sam took the steaming mug of coffee from Jo, hands trembling with exhaustion.

"Easy there, Sam," she murmured, cupping her palm around his wrist to steady him. "Why don't you go lie down in Bobby's office?"

"I can't," he barked, then sighed, shaking his head. "Sorry, Jo," he whispered.

"Don't apologize." She squeezed his wrist and dropped her hand to her side. "You're doing great. You might want to switch to decaf after this one though."

Sam nodded, dredging up some semblance of a smile for her; Jo, who had been like a sister to him and Dean. Jo had been Sam's playmate, the fourth that soothed his third wheel fears growing up, whenever Cas was with Dean (which was always). Her mother Ellen had owned The Roadhouse, a local favorite among police officers, for as long as Sam could remember. Her late husband Bill had been in the Marines with John, before Sam or Dean had even been a glint in John's eye. The two families, along with John's best friend Bobby Singer, comprised the bulk of Sam's familial memories.

Still, no one could have been more surprised than Sam when Bobby and Ellen had eloped to Las Vegas a few years ago. Sam still struggled with the thought of his surrogate 'aunt' and 'uncle' getting it on.

Jo had taken it in stride, however, and laughed at Sam's pinched expression the first dinner they had all shared to celebrate the new couple's nuptials.

"Sammy, you're such a fucking prude."

"Shut up, Jo," Sam had grumbled, blushing.

"They're happy, asshole. Can't you be happy for them? Jesus fucking Christ, it's _my mother_, and I'm not half as tight-assed about it as you." Jo punched him hard in the shoulder for emphasis.

"Ow, Jo, Jesus." Sam rubbed his shoulder, sighing. "I just," he paused, a wistful expression on his face. "I always kind of thought Ellen was pining for your dad. Would love him forever."

"You're a pussy," Jo scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

"Joanna Beth," Ellen barked from across the room. "If I hear _one more _f-bomb out of your mouth at _my_ wedding party, I'm going to kick your ass all the way to Sunday!"

Jo grinned, waving her mother off.

Sam took a second to appreciate Jo's balls of steel in that moment. No one terrified Sam Winchester more than Ellen Harvelle on a rampage. Not even John.

"_Anyway,_" Jo continued, but she dropped her voice a few degrees. "Of course mom will always love dad. You never forget your first love." Her gaze dropped from Sam's face, and fleetingly Sam remembered a dark summer midnight in his backyard, Jo's sweet cinnamon breath on his cheek. "But she loves Bobby too. He's been her best friend forever. That's a good life, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice husky. He glanced at his fiancé Jess, standing across the room, arm looped through Mary's. His eyes met Jo's again and he opened his mouth but she interrupted before he could speak.

"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't make it impossible for me to continue in my duty as best friend."

Sam chuckled and the moment passed.

Jo had sighed then, in relief. "Now. On to more important things. Have you seen that batch of cadets they brought in last week? Holy shit, number four-one-nine is _smoking_ hot."

Sam's eyes followed Jo now as she answered his desk phone, making notes on his day planner in her neat script, taking care of all the details of the cases he couldn't focus on because of Jess. Jo was still his best friend. And he loved her in this moment as much as he had ever loved anyone in his whole life.

"Jo?"

"Hmm," she murmured, flipping through a file of photos they had confiscated from Cas' storage unit, mechanical pencil gripped between her teeth.

"I love you."

Jo dropped the pencil with an exaggerated eye roll. "Seriously, Sam. Go lie down. Twenty minutes and I'll come get you."

Sam huffed into his palm. "Okay, Jo. Twenty minutes."

As it turned out, it was only ten. Jo, white-faced and scared, appeared in the doorway of Bobby's office, a plain brown wrapper in her hand.

Sam struggled to his feet, heart pounding. "What is it?"

She passed the open envelope to him, a sheet of paper lying on top.

It had a single long curl of golden hair fastened to it with a strip of clear tape.

_Which heart is the real one? _

_Which eye the seer? _

_Why is it in the infinite plan _

_that you would be severed _

_and rise from the dead _

_like a gargoyle with two heads?_

"Call Dean," Sam managed, before sitting back down on the cot, lightheaded, sick with fear.

...

Dean could feel his dread increase incrementally, the closer they came to the Kansas state line. It wouldn't be long now, no more than forty minutes before they hit Kansas City.

"Hang on, Jess," he murmured. He chanced a glance at Cas, who had been sleeping for almost an hour. He was slumped against the passenger door, his head tucked into Dean's balled up jacket. Dean would have to check the dressing soon; that is, if he could coerce Cas into stopping one more time before they reached Lawrence.

Dean steeled his jaw. They could damn well sacrifice another ten minutes. Besides, he was still struggling to come up with a plan to get Cas safely removed from the chaos they were about to voluntarily walk into. He was by God not letting Cas anywhere near this bastard again.

If he had to have Henrikson lock him up, he would. He would deal with Cas' wrath when it was all over.

The problem wasn't that Dean didn't trust Cas. It was that Cas' family had already proved themselves to be unquestionably evil while totally unpredictable. Above all else, Dean needed to keep a clear head and laser-sharp focus, and he couldn't do that when Cas was involved. He had made that mistake once, and it had cost him his whole world.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

...

_Five Years Earlier_

Dean paced the living room impatiently; Cas was more than an hour late. It wasn't a huge deal, they could always catch a later show or skip the movie altogether. But it had been a hectic few months, and Dean felt like they had barely seen each other. They had been passing in the night, and sometimes not even then, for weeks.

Cas was working on a new book, deep in the throes of the research process, and had been spending more and more time traveling to the St. Joseph Public Library a few counties over the Missouri state line. Dean had been forced to cover multiple shifts since the city had decided to downsize the police department; he was back to covering routine patrols for the first time since becoming a homicide detective.

When the key turned in the lock, Dean turned, grumbling. "It's about time—"

He halted when he saw that Cas wasn't alone.

Cas' eyebrows raised in surprise. "Dean," he said warmly. "What are you doing home?" He stepped aside to allow the man with him to enter, before shutting the door behind him.

Dean eyed the handsome stranger warily. He was the same height as Cas, and roughly the same build. His skin was a deep, honeyed tan and his dark eyes and high cheekbones were indicative of Native American heritage. "We were going to dinner," Dean reminded him, voice clipped.

Cas' face fell. "Oh Christ, is it Friday? I forgot," he smiled sheepishly. "Well, we can still go." He turned to the man at his side. "How about it, Montana? Would you like to go to dinner with us?"

Montana was watching Dean, so still Dean couldn't detect even his breath.

Cas cleared his throat uneasily. "Oh. Um, Dean, this is Montana Askuwheteau. He's been a huge help in my research into the Potawatomi history of Kansas and Missouri. Montana, this is Dean Winchester, my roommate."

Dean's eyes flicked to Cas then. _Roommate._ He looked back to Montana and held out a hand. "Montana."

The man accepted the handshake, his grasp firm and warm in Dean's. "Mr. Winchester." His voice was smooth, and the dialect held something foreign; Dean wondered what language had been his native tongue.

Cas studied Dean with a hard glint in his eyes. Dean knew he was trying to send him a message, a rebuke for his lack of social grace, but Dean didn't give a shit. Cas had clearly forgotten it was their anniversary.

Dean was left feeling like an idiot. Might as well go for broke then. "We missed our reservation at Fogo de Chão. But we can go somewhere else."

Cas blanched. "Reservation," he asked weakly. "Dean..."

"Don't worry about it," Dean said gruffly, turning away from the pair by the door. He hadn't missed the way Montana had taken a step closer to Cas when he heard the uneasiness in Cas' voice. "Another time."

"Let me put my things away," Cas said, voice subdued. He gestured to the living room. "Montana, make yourself at home. I'll be right back and then we can decide on dinner."

Dean ground his teeth together. Sure, he was left to make nice with the stranger who seemed entirely too comfortable standing too fucking close to _Dean's_ boyfriend. "So, Montana, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a media specialist at the St. Joe's library," he replied conversationally, walking to the bar that separated the living area from the kitchen. Dean was currently behind it, retrieving glasses from the glass-front cabinet.

_Media specialist,_ Dean thought. _Of course you are._ Probably a goddamn brainiac research fiend, just like Cas. Dean envisioned the two men huddled together, dark heads close over a pile of dusty books in the basement of some godforsaken government building. "And what are you and Cas researching?"

Dean opened a second door and grabbed a bottle from the shelf. He poured himself a finger of whiskey in a glass tumbler and inclined it toward Montana, eyebrow raised.

Montana shook his head, refusing the drink. "I don't think I should say, without Cas' permission."

_Cas'._ Dean threw back the whiskey in one swallow. "Okay," he said evenly.

Montana studied him with eyes so black Dean couldn't detect the pupil, not in the dim light of the overhead lamp. Montana leaned on top of the bar, bracing on one strong forearm. "And Cas tells me you're a cop," Montana was saying, but Dean's ears were ringing. He had caught a whiff of the man's cologne when his head dipped close and Dean flinched; it was the same as his own.

"Excuse me," Dean ground out, slamming the glass on top of the counter.

He stalked into the bedroom, _Cas' bedroom, _the one he still kept clothes in even though he almost always slept with slammed the door behind him.

Cas turned, a freshly-pressed dress shirt partially in place. "Dean," he said, alarmed at the look on Dean's face. "What's wrong?"

But Dean couldn't speak.

At the foot of the bed was a pile of strange clothes, neatly folded in place next to a duffle bag Dean had never seen.

Cas followed his gaze. "Dean," he began but stopped when Dean held up a hand.

"How long." Dean's head was pounding nearly as fast and as hard as his heart. Once the image was planted, Cas' mouth, his hands, his _body, _entwined with that of the handsome stranger in the room behind him, Dean couldn't vanquish it.

"It's not what you think," Cas said quietly, buttoning his shirt with calm fingers. "As usual, you're jumping to your insanely jealous conclusions without the common courtesy of asking me first."

"I'm asking," Dean bit out, crossing the room in three long strides, gripping Cas' biceps tight.

"He needed a place to stay. It was only for a night."

Dean paled. "He slept here?" His stomach dropped to his knees and his hands fell away.

"Dean," Cas pleaded, reaching for him.

Dean backed away.

Cas clenched his fist and went back to coolly buttoning his shirt. Dean kind of hated him for the control in his fingers. "Yes. He slept here last night. I," Cas unzipped his fly, shoving his shirt inside. "I slept in your bed. Alone."

Dean flinched; he had not been coming home at night much these days. Sometimes it was simpler to catch the too few hours left between shifts in the breakroom. "_Not _my fault, Cas."

Cas fastened his jeans and Dean felt a perverse satisfaction that _now_ he could see a fine tremble in his hands. "No, it's not. It is what it is, right?"

Dean sucked in a breath. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Cas shrugged his shoulders into a jacket and stepped into Dean's personal space. "I guess it means if you wanted to be home, you'd be home."

Dean pursed his lips, the accusation stinging. Of course he wanted to be home, he never wanted to be anywhere but with Cas. "And if you wanted to fuck the first handsome guy that came along, you'd fuck him? Let him sleep in my bed, shower in my bath?" He was sorry the instant the words left his mouth.

Cas' eyes hardened. "What makes you think he was the first." He strode from the room.

Dean was still standing in Cas' empty bedroom when the front door closed.

He was halfway through his bottle of Jack Daniels when the doorbell rang. His heart leapt; maybe Cas had forgotten his key. When he pulled it open, the apology already falling from his lips, he was shocked to find a petite redhead staring up at him.

"Anna?"

"Hello, Dean," Anna said softly. "Is Cas here?" She twisted her hands together nervously.

Dean had rarely seen Cas' sister since they had left home; hell, he had rarely seen her when they were growing up. She was several years younger and he had always had the feeling Alistair didn't let her socialize much.

"Uh, no," Dean swayed unsteadily and had to lay a hand on the doorframe. "He's out."

"Oh," she said, looking quickly at her feet. "I'll just, I'll go then." She turned to leave and Dean grabbed for her arm.

"No, wait." He gentled his touch when she shrank away. "Come in. You can wait here. He won't be gone long," he lied. He had no idea if Cas would come back or not. _Goddammn_ his vile temper. And goddamn Cas' refusal to carry a cell phone. Dean could be groveling right now, begging him to forgive his pigheadedness and stupidity. _Please come home,_ Dean thought miserably.

He moved to let Anna enter.

"Do you want a drink?" He wrinkled his nose self-consciously when he realized it was plain he had been drinking straight from the bottle. "I do have glasses," he joked.

"Bottle's fine with me if it's fine with you," Anna murmured, looking up at him from under her lashes.

Dean blinked. Was she flirting? She was a pretty little thing, all big blue eyes and fiery hair, the colors more intense against the backdrop of her porcelain skin. He cleared his throat, feeling like a lecherous old man. This was Cas' _little sister._ "Saves on dishes," he said wryly, and she giggled.

"Far be it from me to add to your chore list, Dean," she grinned, taking the bottle from his hand. She took a long swig and his eyes widened when she didn't sputter or cough once.

"Well that was impressive," he said grudgingly.

She winked. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

They sat on the couch and watched _Absolutely Fabulous_ reruns and ran through the rest of the whiskey and a bottle of tequila before Dean started to get bleary.

The little redhead seemed as right as rain though, and it pricked something in his conscious. "Are you sure you're swallowing," he asked, groaning and holding his head when he tried to stand. "B'right back. Gotta pee." He staggered into the hallway doorframe and she laughed.

She appeared under his arm before he realized she had moved. "Let me help you, big guy."

"Um, no," Dean said, pushing her gently away. At least he thought he did. The room was starting to sway; or maybe that was his body. "I have parts you really shouldn't be seeing."

"Dean," she admonished. "Don't be silly. I've seen everything you could possibly have. I'm not a virgin."

Dean struggled to remember where he was going and why Cas' little sister had her fingers on his fly. "Anna," he mumbled, grabbing her wrists. "Stop."

Her lips were on his before he could react and his head spun. Her tongue was small and hot and it flicked between his lips in quick little strokes. He grimaced and shoved her aside. "Anna," he said, voice stronger. "I think you should leave."

"Do you, Dean," she crooned, her hands shoving up under his t-shirt. Her fingers were icy, harsh against his heated skin. Dean's vision began to blacken and he realized they were standing at the edge of his bed. "I think you should lie back and enjoy it."

It was the last thing Dean remembered before he passed out.

...

Cas stood at the curb, beside the open taxi door. "I'm sorry, Montana. I suppose this is partly my fault," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Not at all," Montana said. He laid a hand tentatively at Cas' waist. "You're sure?"

Cas stepped back and the hand fell away. He was sure. When it came to Dean Winchester, he had always been sure. "He may seem like an asshole, but he's _my_ asshole," Cas joked before sobering. "And I love him. But thank you, for all of your help."

Montana nodded and gave a brief wave before climbing into the cab.

Cas rode the elevator up to their apartment, nervous stomach jumping with anxiety. He shouldn't have left. He knew how insecure Dean was, and despite his own frustration with never getting to see him, always feeling like he was second to Dean's job...he knew Dean loved him. And he never should have implied there had been someone else. There would never _be_ anyone else. Not for Cas.

They were both idiots.

He pushed his key in the door and turned it, frowning when he realized it was unlocked. The apartment was quiet; Dean must have gone to bed. He sighed when he saw the two empty bottles on the coffee table. So he would have a grumpy, hungover Dean to deal with in the morning. _Great._

He stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it through his open bedroom door when he passed, heading instead for Dean's room. His body craved the closeness of Dean's, liquor-soaked or not, even if it was merely to sleep next to him, content in his presence.

Dean must have fallen asleep with the light on, Cas mused, and he pushed the door open as quietly as he could, pausing when he heard a soft groan.

His heart stopped at the sight that awaited him inside the room.

Anna's bright hair fell across Dean's abdomen as her head bobbed up and down above his groin.

Dean groaned again, and Cas felt his stomach lurch; he was going to be sick.

"Anna," he rasped, shock and horror stealing the power he wanted to thrust behind the word.

She froze and scrambled off of the bed, grabbing the sheet to cover her nudity. "Cas," she whispered. "Cas—"

"Get out," Cas ground out. "Get out!" Sheer, blind, aching fury burned through him and he had to clench his fists tight to prevent himself from lashing out, from throwing her against the wall.

"Cas," Dean groaned, rolling off the side of the bed, struggling to stand. "Anna?" He fell to his knees.

Anna grabbed her clothes from the floor and slunk past Cas. He was still staring at Dean, the evidence of the night's activity prominently displayed in all of his nude glory, when he heard the front door close.

"Cas," Dean moaned again before lurching into the corner and vomiting.

Cas walked away, stopping only to grab his car keys and his shirt. _This will break me,_ he thought as he drove into the dark night. _This is why we never love._ They were the words he had had drilled into him, sometimes with painful consequences, as far back as he had memory for.

For the first time in his life, Cas thought maybe Alistair had been right all along.

...

_Present_

Michael looped the seatbelt through Jess' handcuffs before he fastened it, effectively pinning her hands to her lap. He tightened the strap until it bit into her hips.

"Don't want you sliding around now, do we?"

Jess flinched away when his face loomed close and he laughed darkly.

"I wish," he whispered against her cheek. He slammed the door and she watched him walk serenely around the front of the truck. She could hear the refrigeration unit in the back. The vehicle was unmarked, unidentifiable. She understood that there was a reason she was allowed to see it and her surroundings now.

He didn't expect anyone to have the opportunity to ask her what she remembered.

He backed out of the garage easily and turned the big truck onto the highway. They were in a small, older subdivision, built when housing included large yards suitable for children's swing sets and wading pools, plenty of room to play and roam. It was the kind of neighborhood she and Sam had wanted to find, when they started a family of their own.

Jess bit back a sob.

"Now, now," Michael murmured, reaching over to pat her shoulder. "Do you know why I chose you Jess?"

He waited but when she didn't answer, he continued. "I've been waiting, you see. For five, long years I've waited for the perfect opportunity to avenge my father's death."

He knew he had her attention when she glanced over at him, and he nodded. "Yes, you _are_ curious aren't you? As well you should be. She who sacrifices her life in the noblest of causes should be rewarded." He patted her again. "I'm only sorry that your reward is not more pleasant nor lasting. You will rest easy in the knowledge that you have died an honorable death, however."

"Fuck you," Jess whispered, looking out of the window again. He wasn't making any sense and she needed to concentrate on getting the hell out of this truck before they stopped. Because when they stopped, it was over; she understood that implicitly.

"Language," Michael warned. "My father was a pious, righteous man. And he was struck down in his prime by one of his own sons." His voice dipped dangerously, dark. "I've waited a long time to get my hands on Castiel. I thought, for a time, I had lost my chance. Or that fate had a poetic sense of humor."

He began to laugh and Jess watched him, fascinated by the handsome transformation in his face. Sweet Jesus, he was out of his mind. She shuddered when she imagined again all those who had been fooled by him in the past.

"You know, the last job my father and I did together was for Cas. Incidentally," he mused, smiling in memory, "it was the first job we allowed Anna to help us with."

"Anna?" Jess remembered something she had heard on a victim's crime story show: if she could keep her attacker talking, forge a personal connection, she might have a chance, impart a sense of empathy. She held Sam's sweet face close to her heart and cleared her throat. "Cas' sister?"

"And mine," Michael nodded his head approvingly. "Yes. Cas had left the fold, you see, too happy and too settled for father's taste. Father never did get over the fact that _two_ of his lambs had refused to join us."

"Two," Jess asked sharply. "Who besides Cas?"

"Gabriel."

Jess wracked her brain but couldn't remember having ever heard of another brother. She knew so little about Cas' history, so little about Cas himself. "What happened?"

"To Gabriel? It doesn't matter," Michael said dismissively. "Although, there's a fun bit of ironic mistaken identities I may share with you a little later. But what you want to know about is Anna, am I right?"

Jess nodded. She had no idea what he was talking about, but if he was talking about Anna, he wasn't talking about killing _her_. That was good enough for now.

"We sent beautiful, virginal Anna to seduce Dean."

Jess gasped, thinking back to when Dean and Cas had split up. Sam would never tell her what had happened, but she had seen herself how broken Dean had been afterward. "Dean would never have cheated on Cas," she said firmly.

Michael snorted in disgust. "I hate to admit it, but you're probably right. God knows I sent enough hookers and decoys over the years to try and tempt him away." He smiled and the expression was pure evil. Jess shivered. "So we didn't send Anna in unarmed."

Jess watched him thoughtfully and she knew he was waiting, testing her ability to puzzle it out. "She drugged him," she said finally.

Michael tapped the side of his nose. "Very nicely done, Mrs. Winchester."

"You're a bastard."

He laughed. "So I've been told," he said, amused. "As luck would have it though, the eldest Winchester prodigy had already fucked things up a bit that night all on his own. Anna was nearly apoplectic when she returned home." He shook his head remembering. "She thought Cas was going to murder her."

"Then what happened?"

"What always happens, angel." Michael sighed in contentment. "Then, I win."

...


	15. Chapter 15

**_Author's Note: _**_AHHHHHH! I'm freaking out too. :D Enjoy!_

...

"Did Cas know? The truth about Anna?" Jess held her breath, wondering just how deep this rabbit hole went. She knew Anna and Cas' father had died in the fire that had destroyed their childhood home.

"No," Michael said tersely. "Perhaps I would have had the opportunity to enlighten him, had he not murdered both of them that very night."

Jess' eyes widened in disbelief.

He smiled. "You look surprised. Well, it's true." He shook his head, a faint look of pride on his face. "I never would have thought he had it in him. He had certainly never shown a proclivity for it before. He lit that place up like the fourth of July."

"And you? How did you manage to escape unscathed?"

Michael shrugged. "He thought I was in the basement." He winked at her. "I wasn't."

"I don't believe you," Jess whispered, thinking of Cas' sweet face and gentle disposition.

"Well," he dragged the word out. "Anna was casualty of a war she knew little about. And Cas had always had a soft spot for her, so it's possible I _helped_ in that regard. But father?" His expression hardened. "He murdered my father in cold blood. The debt for a soul lost prematurely is difficult to ascertain, and even harder to repay."

He reached for her and she shrunk away from his hand. He laughed and grabbed her anyway, squeezing the fleshy part of her upper arm hard enough to make her gasp.

"You want to know the real irony here? I had almost given up on the boring bastard, living his apple pie life in the suburbs, no Dean in sight. Until his wife came calling and presented me with the perfect opening."

The truck stopped at the gated entrance to an empty field. They had not passed a single home or building for miles and Jess fought a rising sense of panicked despair. She was out of time. _She was out of time_.

Michael hopped from the truck and unlocked the gate, swinging it wide so that he could drive the truck through the opening. The terrain was uneven, jarring, and the highway disappeared from Jess' view in the side mirror. She swallowed a whimper when he parked next to a grove of trees and turned off the ignition.

"We're here," he said cheerfully.

"You were going to tell me about Cas' wife," Jess blurted, scrambling for something, anything, to keep him talking.

"What?" Michael cocked his head. "Oh, yes. She was planning a secret brotherly reunion, needed to make her amends."

He slammed out of the truck and Jess could hear him in the back, metal clanging against the floor or the walls of the bed. She started when he opened the passenger door.

He calmly unhooked her seatbelt and disentangled her wrists. She was knocked against him when he pulled her from the cab.

"She was dying, as it turned out," he continued conversationally, pulling Jess behind him, a shovel gripped in the other fist. Jess' looked frantically around her for something, anything to give her the upper hand.

"Some genetic thing. Her mother had it, committed suicide." They were deep into the trees now and he stopped next to a newly turned grave. Jess began to cry when she spotted bones in the bottom of a rectangular wooden box wedged down in the pit.

Michael studied her, watching the tears track down in her face in morbid fascination. "Still beautiful," he murmured, tracing one wet drop with a fingertip, then sucking it into his mouth.

Jess' stomach rolled.

"She wanted Dean for him," he said softly. "Even his wife could see how hopelessly devoted my brother was to the Winchesters. Five _years_ they had been apart," he spat angrily. "_Five years,_ and he still pined for him."

His jaw clenched, vein jumping along the ridge. Then just as quickly, his face relaxed, the tension easing from his shoulders.

"But Castiel never got over seeing our baby sister suck his boyfriend off." His eyes twinkled with spiteful glee. "Which, as you can imagine, put a rather large kink in Daphne's plan of not leaving him alone after she was gone." He shoved down hard on Jess' shoulders, surprising her and forcing her to her knees. "Gabriel was plan B," he continued pleasantly. "Her private investigator found me instead."

He moved to push her into the grave.

"No," Jess cried out, shaking her head and swinging wildly with her cuffed hands. He batted her away easily, kicking her hip hard enough that she fell, hanging precariously over the ledge of soil. "No!"

Jess used her legs, strong from years of running in a last ditch effort to escape. She kicked violently, heart singing when she connected with flesh and heard him grunt in pain, and she was able to scramble to her knees. Her hopes were swiftly crushed when he slammed her to the forest floor, the knee at her back grinding her into the ground.

"I gave nature a hand with Daphne, eased her suffering," he whispered against her ear. "Because if there's one thing I know about Dean Winchester, it's that he can't resist rescuing his beloved Castiel."

He rolled her over roughly and she swallowed a scream when she saw the syringe in his hand. He straddled her hips, clamping her powerful legs between his own. He pried her mouth open, fingers digging into her cheeks, and shoved a thick rag between her teeth. He held it in place with a filthy strip of fabric, wrapping the length around her head. Jess could feel dirt and leaves in what remained of her hair and realized the stocking cap was missing, discarded in the struggle.

"It's poetic really. Castiel took from me the most precious thing in my life." He loomed close, nose brushing her cheek when he growled in her ear. "He _ripped out my heart._"

He lifted her by her shoulders and slammed her into the hard packed earth, jarring her teeth. Her head bounced painfully off of the ground and she blinked, vision blurring.

Michael's chest was heaving, eyes wild and Jess felt a peaceful sense of finality settle over her. Her fear dispersed, a physical thing, and she imagined it seeping from her bones and into the soil beneath her. She wondered idly if dying was painful.

He sat up, studying her, reaching down to gently adjust the knot that held her gag in place. "I'm going to cut out Dean Winchester's heart and deliver it personally to Castiel's hands."

He winked at Jess' calm stare. "And I don't mean that metaphorically."

He stood, brushing the dirt and leaves from his knees, cruel smile in place on his handsome face. Serene again, steady.

_Merciless_, Jess thought.

"I would have preferred you were lucid for this, but maybe it's better this way. You'll wake soon enough, with a remarkably long-lasting bit of oxygen left in which to contemplate your surroundings."

Despite her new calm, Jess winced at the sharp pinch in her thigh. When he tried to help her to her knees, her movements felt uncoordinated, thick.

Her lids were heavy, eyes blessedly closed by the time he finally rolled her over the edge, and her back thudded painfully against the bones in the plain wooden box. Jess' last conscious thought was of Sam, and how she hoped one day he would get over this.

...

"You're not coming." Dean's voice was firm.

"I'm not arguing with you," Cas stated quietly. "You don't know him, not the way I do. You need me there."

"We don't even know for sure we're talking about Michael," Dean shouted, frustrated. The flurry of activity in the precinct halted, all eyes trained on the pair.

"Come on," Dean grumbled, pulling Cas' down the hall to Bobby's office. He shut the door behind him, ignoring the raised eyebrows of Bobby's secretary.

Cas' face was pale, beads of sweat dotting his forehead when Dean turned to face him. "You're barely standing," Dean ground out, but his hands were gentle when they reached for him.

"I'm—"

"Fine," Dean interrupted. "I know. You're so _fine_ you look like I could knock you over with a stiff drink." He sighed heavily. "Look, Cas, I can't. Okay? I can't do this and be worried about you at the same time."

"I'm going."

"Jesus fucking _Christ," _Dean groaned, whirling away and ripping at his hair.

"Dean," Cas said softly.

Dean ignored him, inhaling deep, calming breaths, willing his heart into a steadier, more sustainable rhythm. He turned back.

"Okay. But." He held up a hand to stop whatever Cas was going to say next. "You are with me or Sam or Victor. Every second. You don't go anywhere alone. You don't play the hero. You drop the fuck to the ground at the first whiff of flying objects that might impale you."

Cas huffed a quiet laugh. "No flying objects. Got it." He held out a hand to Dean. "Come here."

Dean clasped the fingers tight and let Cas rein him in. They kissed, desperate longing and a lingering anxiety shaking Dean to his core.

"I love you," he whispered into Cas' mouth, pressing the words into the skin of his cheek, willing him to believe, to know the truth of the declaration.

"And I love you," Cas answered.

They studied each other soberly, and Dean realized that here, now, after five long years, they had finally grown the fuck up and discovered how inconsequential the past became when the future was in jeopardy. It simply didn't matter anymore. What mattered was this, the touch of a hand, a mouth, the beating of two hearts in time together, blue eyes on green. Love.

There was a sharp rap on the window glass.

"Dean?" It was Sam's voice and Dean swung the door open quickly, enveloping his younger brother in a tight hug.

"Sammy, God, I'm sorry it took us so long."

"No," Sam whispered. "I'm just glad you're here now." He straightened, nodding at Cas. "You too, Cas. Are you all right?" He noted the stiff way Cas was holding his left arm.

"I'll be okay, Sam. What about Jess? Where's the letter?"

Jo had called them as they were entering the city limits. She had relayed the note to Dean over the phone and was now down in forensics, dusting it for latent prints.

"I have a copy," Sam said, handing over a crumpled slip of paper.

Dean frowned when Sam passed it to Cas first and had to crowd them both to read over Cas' shoulder. The brief poem made no sense to him. "I don't understand. Is it a riddle?"

"It's a poem," Cas said, swaying.

Dean grabbed his arm, concerned. "You okay?"

Cas nodded, shaking him off. "I know this. It's by Anne Sexton. It's called Earthworm."

Sam frowned, perplexed. "I don't understand either. What does it mean?"

Cas looked from one man to the other, these two, his oldest friends. One, more precious to him than breath itself. His eyes were filled with remorse when he spoke. "He's buried her. She's—" Cas swallowed. "He buried her alive."

Sam straightened, aghast. "Oh my God." He raked his hands through his hair. "Dean," he pleaded, unable to go on.

"Cas, what else," Dean urged, the detective taking over, shoving brotherly concern down deep.

"I know where she is," Cas said quietly. "We need to hurry."

...

Mary looked out of her kitchen window, sentimental gaze falling on the ancient metal swing set, remembering three little boys, and occasionally a little blonde girl, filling the yard, her house, with joy and laughter. A hand on her waist startled her.

"You okay, babe?" John dropped a kiss to her shoulder before moving to the sink and turning on the tap, one finger in the stream to judge the temperature before filling his mug.

Mary sighed sadly. "Thinking about the boys."

"Dean has Cas now," John reminded her gently. "And when they get back, they'll find Jess."

Mary smiled at him.

"What?"

"Since when are you such an optimist," she questioned lightly, loving the way his dark eyes sparkled in the overhead light.

John rolled his eyes and his voice turned gruff and grouchy, a sure sign he was more affected than he felt comfortable expressing. "I always catch hell for being the Winchester with all the common sense." He reached for her and she stepped into his embrace willingly.

"She's going to be okay," she whispered against his chest.

"She's going to be okay." John reached down to pat her butt and Mary laughed, swatting his hands away.

"Go on and watch your cop show," she said, pushing him toward the door separating the kitchen and living room. "I'll start dinner."

They were both trying to maintain normalcy in light of Jess' disappearance, but it was hard. They had hovered at the police station until Bobby had ordered them home, _"Go have some goddamn dinner like normal people, for the love of Christ."_

She found herself back at the window while she waited for the microwave to thaw the chicken she had forgotten to lay out earlier. Here eyes were drawn to the far northwest corner of the yard, where it ended in a small wooded grove. On the other side of those woods, the Novak house had once stood.

She remembered the small, dark-haired boy who used to traverse those woods almost every night, alone in the dark, to sleep upstairs, or sometimes in her lap on the sofa. She thought about Cas' big blue eyes, how sad they had been at five, how they had grown warmer, more trusting, the more time he spent with them. How fiercely she had loved him, the boy she had not birthed.

She had failed him. In so many ways Mary knew she had failed Castiel, and for the rest of her life she would wonder if she had done the right thing, allowing him to remain in that household. She had selfishly clung to Alistair's promise that he wouldn't take him away, that he would permit Cas' place in the Winchester household. But she had never quite understood the price.

She wondered now if Jess' life was the price.

She had only called child protective services once. Perhaps it had been foolhardy, Lord knew it had done little good; they had made a perfunctory visit and thanked her for her report before disappearing into that bright fall day, never to return.

Cas had been ten, and Mary had been inconsolable, more lost than even Dean, when Cas had vanished for forty-eight hours after CPS was gone.

When he appeared on her steps, disheveled and hollow, weary and weak, it was all Mary could do not to kill Alistair herself. She and Cas had forged an even stronger bond that night, a silent promise while she held him close and read his favorite book: no matter what, she would never knowingly put him in jeopardy again. She would protect him, however she could.

As much as she didn't understand _why_, she knew Alistair wanted Cas to have this, to have Dean and Mary and the family experience they provided. It had sickened her, because she had had a sinking feeling that it was because he wanted to rip it all away when Cas least expected it, was least equipped to deal with it. At the same time, she couldn't deny them all the chance to be together.

Years later, Mary would find herself standing in a long, marble-edged corridor at the county courthouse, facing the dark-haired boy turned handsome stranger, still fighting to keep them all together.

"Mary," Cas had breathed, voice shaking. "What are you doing here?" He had been hiding in the restroom, unable to shake a gloomy sense of foreboding, a feeling not exactly conducive to a happy wedding day. When he had glanced up and found Mary waiting in the hall, his heart had stopped, then galloped ahead double time.

She walked swiftly to him, pulling him close. "Castiel."

They stood in the hall, wrapped around each other, clinging tightly.

When she leaned away, her green eyes were sad and wet. "Don't do this, Cas."

Cas tensed. He dropped his hands from her waist. "Mary—" he began.

"It will kill him." Her voice was quiet, resolute.

Cas blinked. Neither moved for a long moment.

Cas was the first to look away. "I," he hesitated, steeling his jaw. "It won't."

"It _will,_" Mary urged, reaching up to turn his chin back to her. "Dean loves you, baby. He's never loved anything more in his life. Don't break him this way."

Cas could feel the tears welling behind his lids, burning for release. He withheld the urge to bury his face in her soft neck and let her soothe away his troubles, ease away his fears.

She had always been so fucking good at that.

"I can't," he whispered sadly. "I love Dean, _God,_ you, of all people, know I'm literally no one if not the guy in love with Dean fucking Winchester." He spun away from her in frustration.

"You're more than that, Cas." Mary's voice was gentle, unyielding. "You're my son, as much as Dean or Sam. And you have both done terrible, horrible things to one another." She laid a cool hand at the back of his neck and Cas closed his eyes.

He wondered if she knew just how horrible. Marrying Daphne would not erase the visage burned into his skull of Anna's naked form hovering over Dean. Nothing would. God knew Cas had already tried plenty.

But Anna had suffered, undeservedly so, a victim in the end, as much as Dean or Cas. And now he wanted peace. Empty, blessed peace. He could have that with Daphne.

Because Dean would never forgive him, and Cas could finally let him go.

"Sometimes the heart lashes out the hardest when it's most fearful," Mary said quietly, as if she could read his thoughts.

Cas concentrated on simply breathing until he felt in control of his emotions, of his heart. He turned and faced her, realizing sadly that he would probably never see her again.

"Thank you for being the mother I never had."

"Cas—"

He cut her off, laying a finger on her lips. "But I can never be with Dean again."

"Cas, please," Mary urged, pulling him to her.

Cas allowed it, relished the warm strength of her arms one more time before pushing her gently away.

"You know my heart, probably better than I do, Mary Winchester," he said sadly. "But all I want now is to be free. Sometimes it feels like I've spent the past twenty-odd years chasing Dean, waiting for him to notice me, running from the things he makes me feel. The things he makes me fear. I'm tired. I want to be numb."

"That's not a recipe for a happy life, sweetheart," she whispered sadly, hand against his cheek.

Cas turned his face so he could kiss her palm. "No, but it's the only one I can live anymore. Goodbye, Mary."

He didn't look back when he walked away. He didn't look back because he knew if he did, he would falter, stumble, find himself sucked into the vortex that was Dean.

Mary had watched him go, devastated in the knowledge that she had failed Cas once more, and that with him, he took her son's heart.

The beep of the microwave broke into her memories, and Mary welcomed the distraction, peeling away the plastic covering, pots and pans clanging as she arranged them on the stove.

She never heard the figure slip through the back door behind her, the fine, sharp prick of a needle to her neck the only warning before her world faded black.

...

Dean arranged the sling around Cas' arm, nabbed from an EMT on standby in the parking lot, the canvas wrap offering little true protection for his injured shoulder. He grumbled under his breath.

"What was that," Cas asked, amused. "And this is just going to be in the way, incidentally, if I need to protect myself. Or you."

"You're not going to be protecting _jack shit,_" Dean said gruffly, giving him a hard look, struggling to force the white nylon webbing through the tiny metal loops of the buckle. "You're staying behind me or Sam or you're hitting the deck, capiche?"

They were standing in the street in front of the precinct, Henrikson barking orders and Sam fidgeting alongside Jo as she gave him a pep talk.

"Dean." Sam held up the keys.

"Ready," Dean called. He blinked down at Cas, at a sudden loss for words.

"I know," Cas replied somberly, reaching up with his good hand to squeeze Dean's fingers.

Dean drove, Cas choosing the back to allow Sam the second seat in the front. Cas had hastily drawn a map to the tract of land outside of Lawrence where his father had liked to _'lay his angels to rest'_ when he was finished with them. He had felt Dean's eyes on him while he wrote out the directions for Henrikson and the officers who would accompany them. He knew there would be questions later, hard questions, but he was no longer afraid of answering them. Whatever else happened, Cas had stopped running from his past and was ready to right the wrongs he had witnessed, things he had hidden from since childhood.

"How long since you've been there," Sam asked, nervously turning his cell phone over in his hands.

Cas cleared his throat. "Sixteen," he managed to say around the knot in his throat. "I was sixteen."

"And you're sure? Positive that's where he'd take her?" This was from Dean, and Cas met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I'm sure."

"You're hiding something." Dean's voice was hard.

"Not hiding, just," Cas sighed, relenting. "The poem. I know it."

"You said that before." Sam turned in his seat. "What does it mean?"

"Not what it means, it's where I've seen it. It's Michael. That poem was for me, because he knew I would recognize it."

"What did he do," Dean asked, barely disguised fury in his voice.

Cas took a deep breath. This wouldn't be easy for either of his friends to hear, but the poem likely meant that Jess was still alive. "He buried me. When I was ten."

"Oh my God," Sam breathed. "Cas."

Cas shook his head, stopping him, needing to finish. "He made me go with him," he paused, swallowing. "To get rid of one of the girls. When we got there, there were two graves ready. He had already been preparing."

Cas looked out at the field rushing past in the gathering dusk, the sky pinkening on the horizon, a beautiful end to a wretched day. He prayed they had something to celebrate before night fell.

"I knew. The minute I saw it, I knew," he pressed his lips tightly together. "They were pissed. Your mom had called CPS that week, remember?"

Dean remembered. Cas had disappeared for two days.

Two days.

Dean had never wanted to kill anyone more than he wanted to right this moment. He sent up a little prayer of his own, that Michael himself would be waiting at the end of this road. Dean had a score to settle.

"When he shoved me in, he tossed a flashlight in before he dropped the lid in place. He had painted that poem on the underside. It was the only thing I had to look at until they dug me up."

"I'm sorry, Cas," Sam said from the front seat, his voice shaking, tremulous. "I'm sorry we never knew."

Cas looked at him sharply. "Don't apologize. Don't lose one ounce of anger or hatred or rage, Sam. It's the only thing that will get you through this."

Sam nodded. "And tomorrow?"

Cas' mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. "Tomorrow we never look back again."

"Except for the sexy parts," Dean threw in after a quiet mile.

"Dean," Sam groaned, laughing in spite of himself.

Cas chuckled and reached over the seat to squeeze Dean's shoulder, grateful for the levity. "Except for the sexy parts," he agreed.

Dean's phone chirped. "Winchester."

He swerved, slamming on the brakes.

"Dean," Sam exclaimed, swinging hard against the passenger door. "Dean, what is it?"

"Mom?"

The two passengers in the car froze.

"Dean?" Mary's voice was shaky, tearful. "Dean—"

Dean's recoiled when a silky voice came on the line. "Dean Winchester. It's certainly been a while."

"Michael," Dean ground out. "Where is she you son of a bitch?"

Sam was gesturing frantically, ripping into the glove box scrambling for a pen or pencil and paper.

"Here's what you're going to do, Dean," Michael said smoothly. "You're going to get out whatever car you're in and send Cas and your brother on their way to save the lovely Jessica. You find other transportation. Alone. Turn back toward the city. I'll call you in five minutes." _Click._

Dean unclipped his seatbelt and threw open the door, running for the nearest patrol car. They had all slammed to a stop, surrounded them on the country road. Sam and Cas were on his heels, frantic.

"Dean, wait, what's going on?"

"He has mom, I have five minutes to get turned around." Dean yanked open the driver's door, ignoring the pissed expression of the officer inside. "Get out," he barked.

"I'm coming with you," Cas said resolutely.

"No!" Dean scraped his palm across his mouth. "He said alone."

"Fuck him," Cas said, stepping too close, breath hot on Dean's face. "It's a trick."

"Jessica," Dean reminded him quietly. "You have to go with Sam. You're the only one who can." He looked back down at the officer waiting in the seat of the patrol car. "Get. Out."

The officer rolled his eyes and climbed from the car. "Douchebag," he muttered as he elbowed past them.

"Go with Sam," Dean urged pushing Cas away. "Find Jessica. I need to keep my phone line open." The last was directed at Victor, hovering in the open doorway of a second squad car. "I'll call you as soon as I know where I'm going. Keep your distance."

"Dean," Sam grabbed him in a hard hug. "You bring her back."

"I will, Sammy," Dean said. "Call dad. If he has mom," he hesitated and Sam blanched. John would not have gone down without a fight.

"I'll send a car over now," Victor offered, voice tight with anger. John was one of their own. "New plan, boys." Victor was barking new orders when Dean pulled away, splitting up the squad.

...

He didn't have to wait long.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes," Dean bit out. "Where is she?"

"Good," Michael said, ignoring him. "You always did know how to follow orders, Dean. Tell me, did you follow Cas' orders too? Say, for instance, he wanted to fuck you over the table, did you just bend over and take it?"

"I'm not interested in your mind games, you sick fuck. You touch one hair on my mother's head, I'll rip your fucking throat out with my bare teeth."

"Ooh," Michael crooned. "You're so hot when you're mad, Dean. I really am going to enjoy this."

"Where is she?" Dean's jaw burned, it was clenched so tight.

"It would seem my baby brother has had a little side project going for the past several years. Perhaps you're familiar with it? Unit one-oh-eight?"

Dean was dialing Henrikson's number the instant he heard the line go dead. "The storage building. Stay back. He'll have the advantage, there's nowhere to hide there."

"And what are you going to do, just waltz in there, guns blazing?" Victor's scoffing tone was clear, even above the roar of the engine as Dean pushed it as hard as it would go. "Don't be a fool, Winchester. Wait for us, we'll set a perimeter."

Dean hung up on him. Victor could set up all the perimeters he liked. Dean was still going to have to go in alone. He had been wrong before; this wasn't about Cas. Now this was between Michael and Dean.

He dialed Sam.

"Dean?" Cas' voice was rough, gravelly with concern.

"She's at your storage building, at least that's where he's sending me. Are you there yet?"

"Not yet, almost."

Dean could hear Sam's voice in the background.

"Sam said to wait for Victor."

Dean snorted. "Of course he did." He shifted on the seat, knowing he should keep the line free. "You be careful."

Cas' voice softened. "You too. I love you."

Dean flushed at the ease with which Cas said the words, Sam's presence not one whit of a deterrent. "I love you too. Stop, drop and roll. Don't forget."

Cas chuckled. "I won't forget."

Dean hung up.

He was two blocks from the storage facility when his phone rang.

"Change of plans," Michael said cheerfully. "And if you're smart you won't let those squad cars tailing you come along."

Dean looked sharply in his rearview mirror. It was impossible to discern if one of the many cars parked along the street held Michael's form. He slowed, pulling to a stop against the curb. "Spit it out."

"Four one two, Simon's Place. Cute little white house on the corner." Michael chuckled. "Oh, and Dean. If I see one more tagalong, I'll slit your mother's throat and leave you to swim in her blood."

Dean swore. "Fuck! _Fuck fuck fuck_!" He resisted the urge to throw his phone against the dash.

He dialed Sam again, not caring if Michael _was_ watching from one of the parked vehicles. It went straight to voicemail; they must be in the woods by now. Dean hoped they were pulling Jessica to safety as he spoke. "Sam. She's not here. I have to go in alone, so give me a head start before you send the new location to Vic, okay?" He rattled off the house number and street. He hesitated, dread pooling in his stomach.

"And take care of Cas for me."

It was the closest Dean would allow himself to admitting the danger he was walking into. But Sam would understand the meaning behind the words.

...

The little white bungalow on the corner was sweet, a relic from the post-war American housing boom. The quiet neighborhood surrounding it had no idea the sleepy dwelling was a veritable house of horrors. Dean parked right out front; it wasn't like Michael didn't know he was coming. He clicked the safety off his gun and removed it from his holster, the weight steady and warm in his palm as he approached the house.

He crossed the porch in slow strides, ears attuned to every sound; crickets were beginning to sing in the darkening evening and the wide planks of the porch creaked under his feet.

The front door was open a crack.

He nudged it with his boot, sweeping inside, gun drawn. Mary was seated in a chair in the middle of the empty room, her arms tied to her sides, mouth gagged. She was twisting her head frantically, eyes wild.

"Mom," Dean whispered, eyes not yet adjusted to the dim interior, scanning the room for movement. He crossed quickly to her, struggling first to remove the tightly knotted gag.

"Dean!"

She was too late; the barbs of the taser struck his back, hot jolts of electric current stunning his limbs, immobilizing him as he fell to the hardwood floor.

...

_Six Days Ago_

Daphne poured a cup of coffee for her guest. They had chatted comfortably as she put away dinner preparations; she was finding Gabriel charming and easy to talk to. Since he had shown up on her doorstep this afternoon, he had been sharing childhood stories about Cas, making her laugh easily, easing her fears about the decision to search for him. She still struggled to calm her nerves over Cas' reaction when he got home and realized what she had done, however.

"You seem nervous," Gabriel said, sipping from his mug.

"I'm sorry," Daphne said, sighing. "I am_._ I have to confess something." She wrung her hands together, sitting down across from him at the kitchen table.

"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad," Gabriel soothed.

She smiled weakly. "It might be, I'm afraid. You see, Castiel has no idea I've been looking for you."

Gabriel's eyebrows arched delicately. "I see." He set his mug aside. "Would you prefer I leave and come again after you've had a chance to talk to him?"

"No," Daphne urged, reaching across the table to clasp his hand. "No. I'm thrilled that you're here and I'm sure Cas will be too."

"Cas," Gabriel murmured. "I haven't heard him called that in a long time. Not since Dean."

Daphne's eyes dropped to the creamy oak finish of the table. She rubbed at a nonexistent spot.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel said. "That was very gauche of me."

"No, it wasn't," she smiled, eyes shining with tears when she looked back up. "Don't take this the wrong way, but there's a part of me that wishes you _were_ Dean Winchester."

Gabriel's laugh was boisterous and it bounced off the small kitchen's walls. "Now that's something I never in my life thought I'd hear."

Daphne laughed with him, relaxing. "Cas and I aren't," she paused, searching for the right words. "We don't live as man and wife."

Gabriel seemed stunned. "Well. You have surprised me again."

"We're friends. He helped me through the death of my mother, and frankly, without his financial support, I would be much worse than I am."

"Worse?" Gabriel cocked his head. "Are you ill?"

"Yes," she said simply. "And after watching my mother waste away, I can't bear the thought of Cas being left alone when I'm gone. I'm basically his only friend," she laughed, but her voice broke. "And you're all the family he has left now. It's only right that you patch up old grudges."

"Old grudges," Gabriel murmured, sipping his coffee again. "It's a lovely thought. Thank you, Daphne. I'm sure Castiel will see the sincerity of your gesture." He winked. "Even if he's pissed as hell at you for making it."

She was still smiling when the phone rang. "Excuse me."

She lifted the receiver from the hook, answering casually. When the caller identified himself as Gabriel Novak, she glanced at the man seated at the table. "Who is this," she asked sharply.

"Gabriel Novak, and I'm asking you to call off your PI. For your own safety." The voice was far away; it reminded Daphne of the international calls from her sorority sister during winter break in college.

"Look, I don't know who you are, if this is some kind of sick joke, but I don't appreciate it. Gabriel Novak is sitting in my kitchen right this minute." She fretted to herself; what if the private investigator she had hired had not been as discreet as she'd hoped? What if some crazed fan of Cas' books had gotten hold of their exchanges?

At the kitchen table, Gabriel's smile faltered, his dark eyes suddenly glittering and hard.

"Get out," the voice on the other end of the line urged. "That man is not me, and you are in grave danger."

Daphne felt a trickle of fear as she looked to the man at her table again. She tried to cover, mind scrambling frantically for a blithe retort, but he was onto her. He calmly stood and she saw the glint of stainless steel in his hand.

Daphne dropped the phone and ran.

...

The tree cover made the darkness thicker, denser, but even so Cas quickly spotted the newly turned earth. The location mimicked the small valley where Melanie Bodine's body had been laid to rest.

"Over here!"

Flashlights bobbed across the field and woods as the rescuers ran to meet him. Sam was the first with a shovel, plunging it into the soft dirt, frantically turning it in large scooping swaths. Cas moved aside, useless with his one good arm, as more arrived to help. He flinched when a shovel hit wood.

Sam fell to the ground. "Jess? Baby can you hear me? Hold on!"

The officers cleared enough earth that Sam could drop into the hole, passing his shovel to Cas, whose eyes met his with the same grim determination. A second officer jumped in beside Sam and together they pried the wooden lid from the coffin-shaped box.

The forest and field was silent save the creaking groan of the wood as it gave way, and the hard breaths of the officers who had raced to find it.

When they lifted the wide, heavy plank, Jess' beautiful blue eyes blinked rapidly at the sudden influx of light from the flashlights trained in the hole, and a cheer went up from the crowd.

Cas sat down hard on the ground, legs suddenly boneless. The officer closest to him squeezed his shoulder tight.

"Good job, man."

Cas could only nod, and he scraped at his damp eyes. _Thank God._

Then they were passing Jess out of the grave, Sam right behind her, untying the knot that held her gag in place. He wrapped his arms around her, all six foot four inches of him quaking.

"Dean," Jess gasped, pushing Sam back, fighting to draw a clean breath, the stench of damp, rotting earth still cloyingly present on her skin, in her lungs. "He wants Dean."

Cas' head jerked up. He struggled to his feet. "Jess."

Her eyes flicked to his face, widening in shock. "Cas," she whispered, shaking her head. "He's going to cut out his heart. For you."

...


	16. Chapter 16

_Five Years Earlier_

Cas unlocked the apartment door with nervous fingers. Dean should be at work for hours yet, but he had always had something of a sixth sense when it came to Cas. It wouldn't surprise him to walk in and find Dean waiting.

He was only here to pick up clothes. He had been driving for two days, aimlessly. He had thought if he drove long enough, far enough, maybe he could get the image of Anna and Dean in bed together out of his head. If he could, if he could just _get there_, then maybe then he would be able to get past it.

It hadn't happened yet. So, he was going to stay with a friend, ironically the girl who had been the catalyst that shoved he and Dean into a serious relationship in the first place. Dean wasn't going to like it, but right now Cas didn't really give a fuck what Dean thought.

_That's a lie,_ he thought miserably, closing the apartment door behind him.

It was quiet, empty.

He walked quickly to his bedroom, stopping in shock when he found his bed unmade, obviously slept in. He stood over it, the mussed, messy, sheet-tangled left side, _Dean's side,_ indented with the shape of a familiar body. _Jesus._

He shoved clean underwear, jeans and a few t-shirts into a duffle bag and left the room. He was going to hyperventilate, or worse, give in to the primal need to lie down in that Dean-shaped indention until the real thing got home from work. When he passed through the living room, he stopped at the bar, intending to leave his apartment key behind. It was pathetic, really, but he wanted to hurt Dean, stab him in the gut with something as raw and painful as he had been made to suffer.

The key would have to do.

He rolled it between his fingers, face flushing hot with anger when he couldn't set it down. He was turning to go, shoving the key in his pocket, when he saw it: a plain brown envelope with his name scrawled on the front in familiar handwriting.

His stomach quivered, fingers shaking when they reached for it. There was no return address, but none was needed; he had watched his brothers make these in the past, mementos to taunt those left behind, and he had a sinking feeling he knew what he would find inside.

He slit the flap with an unwashed knife from the sink and tapped the open end on the countertop.

The uppermost photo fell face up, a cold, cruel snapshot of a moment in agony. Her face was caught mid-scream, her pale, creamy cheeks streaked with black trails of mascara and tears.

Her bright red hair clung to her face and neck with sweat. It matched the small tendril taped to the side.

Cas touched the curl, sliding the top picture away.

Cold, dead eyes stared at him from the second and final pose.

It didn't feel the way he thought it would feel, seeing the evidence of his sister's murder. Instead of despair and heavy, overwhelming guilt, he felt heat, coiling tight in his stomach. It began to spread the longer stared at Anna's face, snaking through his limbs, an electric buzz, until it forced a clarity of mind and heart he had scarcely felt before.

He slid the photos into his pocket alongside the apartment key and threw the strap of the duffle bag over his shoulder.

It was time he went home.

...

Alistair spat, blood congealing on his chin where Cas' fist had split his lip. He chuckled, the sound gurgling loosely in his chest.

"I knew you were my son," he whispered gleefully, head bobbing, left eye swollen shut.

He cackled as Cas poured gasoline in a neat circle around the chair where he sat, legs and arms lashed to the spindly wood frame with bloodied nylon rope. "She was a dirty, filthy whore, Castiel," he sang. "She deserved it, just like they all deserve it."

"Shut up," Cas growled, tossing the container into the corner. The pungent fumes were overpowering and his eyes watered. He fumbled in his pocket for the lighter.

"I'm so proud of you," Alistair said, sickeningly genuine.

"You're done," Cas said quietly, spinning the flint, blue-gold flame springing to life. "And I'm free."

"You'll never be free of me, Castiel," Alistair laughed again. "Anna is _dead_ because you persisted in your godless way of life. Your sister sacrificed everything to save you, to bring you back into the fold." He smiled broadly, teeth bloodied and pink, a horror movie madman come to life. "And you did, you _did."_

"I will _never_ be like you," Cas spat at him, but his hand began to tremble, making Alistair shake with mirth.

"You already are, little lamb. Look deep, deep inside." He inclined his head toward the door, the yard, the house across the woods. "Do you think your _Dean_ will continue to love you, knowing what you've become? The things you've done? You can't escape me Castiel. Even in death, the stench of what you do today will cling to your very soul. Until one day it will be lost," he lowered his voice, closed his eyes, expression serene. "And on that day, you will be _me_."

Cas tossed the lighter to the floor.

He was halfway across the yard when Alistair began to scream.

...

Dean began to run; the house was in flames, he could see the first floor lit orange through the trees. He broke free of the woods, drawing up short at a figure on the edge of the yard.

"Cas!" He spun him around, running his fingers up and down Cas' cold arms. "My God, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Cas' eyes were dull, lifeless as he stared blankly at Dean. He blinked. "Dean? What are you doing here?"

Dean dug frantically for his cell phone, hands shaking as he tried to dial nine-one-one. "Anna," he said, swallowing the name, wishing he didn't have to utter it, not to Cas, not now. "She called, begged me for help."

Cas knocked the phone from his hand, shoving his face close to Dean's. "Bullshit!" Flecks of saliva hit Dean's cheek and he held Cas steady, he had never seen him so feral.

"Cas—"

"She's dead. Dead!" Cas fell to his knees, head in his hands.

"Cas," Dean said in shock, dropping to the damp ground beside him, pulling him close. "Cas, no, she called me," Dean hesitated. "Michael locked her upstairs." There was a loud crash from inside the house, followed by a mini-explosion and Dean threw Cas to the ground, covering his body with his.

Cas struggled beneath him. "Anna?" He shoved Dean aside, scrambling to his feet. "Anna!"

Dean tackled him before he made it to the porch. The heat was intense, cracking his skin as the century-old house incinerated, a dozen wood-framed rooms no more than seasoned tinder now.

"Let go," Cas moaned. "I can save her."

"She's gone, Cas," Dean pleaded, dragging him back from the two-story Victorian furnace now lighting the night sky with an eery orange glow. A siren sounded in the distance.

"Cas, Cas we should go." Dean pulled on his arms, his hands. Cas reeked of gasoline, face and clothing covered in soot and smoke, and Dean knew. He _knew._ "Baby, please, you can't be here when the trucks get here."

Dean dragged him back through the woods, the narrow path they had so often traipsed as children now grown over. He shoved him into the impala, thanking God he had parked behind his parents' house without going in first to say hello.

He had worried Anna might have been trying to seduce him again.

He had hoped he could convince her to admit what she'd done, confess to Cas; it was the only reason he had come. Thank God that he had. Though for months afterward, Dean would wake in a cold sweat, the stark image of Cas' face as he rushed the burning house, intent on saving Anna, haunting him.

Cas never spoke on the ride to the apartment, nor when Dean led him gently into the bathroom, stripped him naked and showered all evidence of the fire from his skin.

His lips had found Dean's, hungry, desperate, the moment they hit their bed and Dean, weak with sadness and worry, let him love him. It was too frantic, too fast, and Dean's heart ached more afterward than before. But he held Cas tightly until he couldn't fight sleep any longer, his last conscious thought a prayer the morning would provide answers and a fresh start.

Instead, Dean would discover, the morning had revealed an empty apartment and a new life, alone.

...

_Present_

Sam tossed his phone to Cas who immediately tried to dial Dean. "Fuck," he swore. His eyes met Sam's and he shook his head. "No service."

He took off across the dark wooded floor of the tiny glen, heading for the open field. He winced when he jarred his shoulder, and wished desperately that he wasn't wearing the sling, that he could pump his arms hard and fast, get across the knee-deep grass and into one of the cars. Get to Dean.

He could hear Sam calling orders behind him, answering shouts surrounding him as the news was relayed via radio.

"Ian's dialing Henrikson now, he's back at the car." The officer, a boy really, no more than twenty-two, was jogging alongside Cas, trying to keep up with his quick strides. "Ambulance is almost here."

Cas nodded terse. He chanced a glance at the phone in his hand again; one bar. He thanked Sam silently for putting Dean on speed dial. Number two; Jess was one.

_You have reached Dean Winchester. If you're that mangy asshole I've been tracking, I'm hot on your tail, motherfucker. If this is Mary, sorry mom. If this is Sam, how long does it take to get a damn cheeseburger?_

The call cut out, losing service again, before Cas could leave a message. His fist burned with the need to punch someone or something. There was an officer waiting at the gate when they finally reached the highway. Cas was out of breath, side aching.

"Did you get him?"

"Henrikson said Dean never made it, or he left. He's not there. And he's not picking up."

"God_dammit_," Cas slammed his fist against the hood of the patrol car. He spun away at the sound of Sam calling his name. His tall form was easily detected among those crisscrossing the field, one arm slung around Jess' shoulder. The ambulance was close; Cas could hear it's distinctive peal echoing through the night air.

"Car," he barked to the kid beside him. "I need a car. Now."

The officer scrambled in his pocket for keys. "Here you go, sir."

Cas gave him a black look and the kid blanched.

"Oh, right. Sorry. It's the navy four-door, there." He pointed to an Oldsmobile parked on the shoulder.

"Sam," Cas called. "I'm going."

"Wait!" Sam passed Jess to the waiting EMT's as the ambulance screamed to a stop. "Cas," he said, pulling Cas aside. "Give me two minutes. Let me talk to Victor. We have to be smart."

"We don't fucking have _time_ to be smart, Sam," Cas bit out.

"Hang on," Sam urged, squeezing his arm. He jogged to the open ambulance doors, jumping into the back with an agility Cas envied.

Cas followed him, needing to see for himself again that Jess was unharmed. She was lying on a stretcher, a warm white blanket wrapped around her. Cas winced at the state of her once beautiful hair. But she was alive.

She was the first; he had never known one to make it out, get away. Dean would be the second. Or Cas would die trying.

"Sam," he urged again. They were running out of time. _Dean_ was running out of time.

"Shit," Sam said under his breath. He leaned over Jessica's form on the stretcher and kissed her gently. "I've got to go, babe. I'll be at the hospital as soon as I can."

"Go," she urged. "Go find Dean and Mary."

Sam hopped down from the back of the ambulance. "Let's go."

"Dean ditched them," Cas said bluntly when they were in the car. "Michael's playing a game with us."

"And Henrikson just lost him? Dean's good, but he shook five patrol cars?" Sam shook his head. "Jesus," he breathed.

They sped through the night, heading back into town. Victor urged them to return to the precinct. They would tap Dean's phone, ping the cell phone tower and see if they could triangulate his last location.

Cas was listening intently, Victor's call on speaker, when he noted the blinking icon in the upper right corner. An envelope.

"Fuck," he swore, yanking the phone from Sam's hand.

"What? What!"

"Voicemail," Cas ground out, hanging up on Victor and dialing. They were at the edge of town when Dean's voice came over the line.

He met Sam's eyes over the console, gripping the armrest, Sam banking a hard right at the next crossroad; St. Simon's was only a few blocks away.

...

"Please tell me you had a good goddamn reason for hanging up on me," Henrikson growled.

Sam relayed Dean's new location. "We're almost there."

"I suppose it would be fruitless to tell you to hold back ten minutes, let us get into place."

"Yes," Cas interrupted, before Sam could answer.

"Then I suppose you also don't want to hear that some nutjob is here, waving a crazy ass story and claiming to be your brother?"

Cas sucked in a breath.

"Bring him," Sam said. "We might need him." He ended the call, not waiting for Victor's answer. He glanced at Cas. "Gabriel?"

Cas inclined his head as spotted a familiar patrol car on the street. "There."

...

Dean groaned, the ache in his temple sharp as he regained consciousness. He startled into awareness, looking around him frantically, disoriented. His wrists were pinned above his head and he yanked furiously against the chains. He was naked from the waist up.

"Dean," Mary whispered. "Thank God."

"Mom." Dean swallowed an enraged surge of anger at the pale violet bruising along her cheekbone. She was in the closest of four cells, six feet to his right. They seemed to be underground, the basement probably. He pulled on his chains again, struggling to his feet. There was enough slack for him to stand, but he couldn't pull his hands forward past his shoulders.

Clever.

He grimaced when he noticed the bloodstains on the floor beneath him, dried bits of what appeared to be flesh embedded in the links of the chains, dotting the walls and concrete.

"Where did he go?"

Mary shook her head. "I don't know. He said he would be right back."

"Is there anything in there, anything you can toss me? Use for a weapon?" Dean rubbed against the filthy wall, callously ignoring the bits of _whoever_ he was dragging across the butt of his jeans. His holster was empty. "He has my gun."

Mary paced the small cell, but it was bare, empty. The cot held a thin mattress and sheet. "I can't find anything," she whimpered, and Dean could hear the panic in her voice.

"Mom." He pulled on the chains again, straining, testing their hold. "Mom, look at me."

Mary stopped, chin trembling as she clung to the bars that separated them.

"It's going to be okay," Dean lied. "Sam and Cas are on their way. With a whole fleet of Lawrence police officers behind him. Just hang on."

Mary's eyes warned him they were no longer alone.

"Wonderful," Michael said. "It's about time Castiel and I had a little family reunion."

The chains clanked together when Dean lunged for him, arms held taut by the too-short length. "I am going to kill you, you son of a bitch."

Michael chuckled, twirling a long knife in his hands. "Is that so?" He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "I'm inclined to believe you could, Dean. I've always enjoyed that spark of danger you carry about you." He leaned as close as he dared, face inches from Dean's. "It's quite alluring," he whispered.

"Fuck you," Dean spat, pulling hard on his tether. The shackles bit into the flesh of his wrist.

Michael inclined his head, nonchalant. "Not really my area of expertise, although," he grinned, "I might be willing to make an exception since Castiel will be upon us soon."

He stroked Dean's cheek, and Dean jerked back, banging his head into the wall hard enough to see stars. Michael laughed.

"Wouldn't it be poetic, Dean?" He ran his palm lightly down Dean's bare chest, stepping neatly away when Dean lunged again. "If Cas walked in to find you in the throes of passion with yet _another_ of his siblings?"

Dean thought he could feel his very soul blackening with the venom of hatred. He repositioned his stance, hoping Michael was too busy gloating to notice. If he could leverage his weight on his arms, he thought he might be able to use his legs to knock Michael off his feet. He only needed an ounce of luck to place him close enough to smash a boot in his face.

"Do you remember that night, Dean? Anna was so frightened. She was a virgin, you know."

"Shut up," Dean warned.

"She begged for her life before I slit her throat. Apologized that she had been unable to fulfill her duty." Michael scoffed. "Apparently, you refused her overtures, you daft pig."

"She was just a kid," Dean said low. "She was a confused kid and you whored her out. And for what? Because you and daddy couldn't stand the fact that Cas was so fucking normal? That despite a lifetime of exposure to you sick freaks, he was better than either of you?"

Michael loomed over him, the knife poised above Dean's heart. "How dare you speak of my father!"

"No!" Mary's cry drew Michael's glance and he relaxed, pulling the knife back.

"Don't worry, Mary. I can blindfold you before I start if you prefer." He studied her, then glanced around the small space. "I'm afraid that sound does echo a bit down here though. The screams can give you quite the headache after a while."

He crossed to a shelf by the door and grabbed a worn strap of leather and a stainless steel bowl. He set them both just out of reach of Dean's feet. He cocked his head, rubbing a finger along the sharp blade of the knife. "Why did you refuse her? Out of curiosity?"

Dean saw the shadow appear in the stairwell; someone was hovering, just out of sight. He held Michael's gaze.

"Because I would never do that to Cas."

Michael snorted. "What? Are you really going to feed me some bullshit line about your one true love? Really Winchester? A hot piece of ass like Anna couldn't tempt you away? I seem to remember you were quite the ladies man in your day."

Dean leaned against the wall casually, letting his arms relax. His hands tingled from their prolonged above-shoulder position. "I wouldn't expect you to understand it, but yeah." He smiled jovially, watching Michael's eyes narrow on his face. _Come a little closer, you sick son of a bitch. _ "I will love Cas until the day I die, and probably even after that."

"I'm rather glad we get to test that theory today," Michael murmured. He leaned in. "She was supposed to kill you, you know. You were going to be her first. In every way."

He took his eyes off of Dean's to smile at the knife in his hand, arm poised to strike.

Dean knew he wouldn't get another opportunity and dropped, his body weight nearly wrenching his arms from the socket. He swung his legs out, and up, sweeping Michael's feet out from under him. The knife clattered across the floor. Michael rolled, but not before Dean got one swift kick to his jaw, smiling when he heard the loud crack of a bone breaking.

It was enough, and Sam was through the doorway, pouncing on Michael as he struggled to his knees, knocking him flat to the concrete floor. They scuffled but Sam was too big, too fast, and he pinned him while he reached for the cuffs on his belt.

Cas was already kneeling in front of Dean, hands running over his face, his head. His expression was grim, but Dean smiled crookedly, never so fucking glad in his life to see someone. He nodded to the wall by the door.

"Keys."

Cas grabbed the keys from the hook, hands shaking as he struggled with the lock on the shackles that held Dean in place. One hand was free when Mary screamed.

"Sam!" Mary's voice was anguished.

Michael had fallen on top of the knife and he flipped neatly over, plunging it into Sam's side.

Sam grunted in pain, dropping the remaining cuff. He rolled, pinning a thrashing Michael under him, but he was weakening and Michael was gaining the advantage.

"Cas, hurry," Dean urged.

Michael broke free, service revolver wrested from Sam's belt.

Dean's remaining cuff fell open in the exact instant as the deafening report from the gun sounded, a millisecond before Dean lunged, knocking Cas out of the way.

"No!"

Dean thought he might have heard his mother cry out, or maybe that was Cas. They were both thrown to the ground by the force of the bullet tearing through Dean's chest. His ears rang painfully and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut at the second shot.

When he didn't feel the burn of another hit, he blinked, confused.

Cas' hands were frantically pressing against the wound in his chest, pushing down on it painfully hard and Dean wanted to laugh, _he was alive,_ but it hurt too fucking much, and his breath seemed to be missing.

He fell back onto Cas' legs, sinking to the floor, but before he blacked out he saw him, Michael, slumped against the bars of Mary's cell, a hole neatly bore through his forehead, eyes lifeless.

And a figure on the stairwell steps, gun outstretched.

Gabe.

...

"Ow, fuck."

Dean blinked at the words. _Sammy._ "Sam?" He struggled against the hands that held him in place.

"Easy," Cas murmured. "Lie still."

Dean tried to focus on the dark shape looming over him, wincing at the hard pressure against his chest.

"Is he awake?" Sam scooted off of the gurney in the back of the ambulance, ducking around the EMT.

Cas nodded, suddenly glad he was sitting down.

"You all right, Cas, you look a little peaked," Dean rasped, grimacing at the fire in his shoulder.

"Shut up," Cas huffed weakly, dropping his forehead to Dean's chest. "Just shut up, you stupid bastard."

Dean chuckled, then groaned. "God_dammit_, that hurt."

Sam carefully squatted beside the stretcher. "Yeah, well that's what happens when you jump in front of flying objects. Like, say, a bullet."

"Stop, drop and roll," Cas whispered.

Dean felt, more than heard the words. He started to laugh. "Ow," he complained.

Sam chuckled. "You did good, Dean." He gripped Dean's arm tight for a moment. "Now someone wants to see you."

Dean looked toward the ambulance door, where his mother and father stood, John's arm tight around her shoulder. He had aged ten years since Dean had seen him last week.

"Mom," Dean whispered, eyes burning. He held out a hand and Cas scooted aside, swiping at his own eyes.

Mary bent over Dean, gently kissing his forehead. "You saved my life, sweetheart."

Dean shook his head. "No, I think that was a joint effort." His eyes met Cas'. He remembered then. "Gabe?"

Cas nodded. "He's with Henrikson."

"How's Jess," Dean tried to sit up, suddenly remembering his sister-in-law. He winced in pain and Mary urged him back down.

"She's fine. She's at the hospital, waiting patiently for this ambulance to get there so she can see her family."

"So it's over," Dean breathed.

Mary nodded. "It's over." She kissed his forehead again. "I'll see you at the hospital."

Dean waved to his dad, then dropped his hand to the sheet, exhausted. "It's over," he said again.

Cas watched him, scooting back into place at his side. "I'm riding with you," he said sternly, as if he expected an argument.

Dean chuckled. "Fine by me." He toyed with Cas' fingers, glancing down at the large swath of gauze wrapped around his shoulder. "How bad is it?"

"You were lucky," Cas said quietly. "Clean shot, broke your collarbone, but other than that, you'll be okay."

"Hey, we'll have matching scars," Dean exclaimed. They must have some pain meds in his IV drip; the world was starting to fuzz around the edges.

"Shut up," Cas complained again, "_God_." Then he was kissing him, hard.

Dean could feel the desperation and fear lingering in his lips, and he brought his free hand up to gently comb through the hair at Cas' nape. "It's okay," he soothed between kisses. "I'm okay."

The EMT poked his head in the back. "Ready to roll?" He kept his gaze carefully averted and Dean grinned.

"You can go ahead and ride up front, Roger."

Roger snorted. "Sure thing, Dean." He slammed the back and the locks clicked into place. A moment later the ambulance began to move, the loud _beep beep,_ indicating they were backing up.

"Want to lie down," Dean wagged his eyebrows.

"You just lie still," Cas said firmly. "You still have a bullet lodged under that pretty skin." He dropped his mouth to kiss the edge of the bandage. His eyes were solemn when he sat back up. "You took a bullet for me."

Dean smiled and linked their fingers. "I guess that means you owe me."

Cas chuckled. "Oh no. I don't know if I like the sound of that."

"It will bear some careful thought and consideration," Dean mused. He blinked sleepily, letting the soothing sway of the ambulance lull his eyes closed. "And Cas?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'd do it all over again."

...


	17. Chapter 17

"Get over here."

Cas looked up from the months-old Sports Illustrated he was thumbing through. Dean's voice was scratchy and tired.

"You're awake." Cas smiled, tossing the magazine into an empty chair. He crossed to the foot of the hospital bed, smiling at Dean's sleepy face.

Dean frowned. "You're not close enough," he grumbled.

Cas laughed softly, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress, as close as the retractable metal side would allow. "Somebody woke up crabby."

"Shut up and kiss me," Dean whispered, eyelids too heavy to keep open. He smiled when he felt the warm, soft brush of lips on his own.

"Better?" Cas nuzzled the side of his face before sitting up reluctantly. "How's the shoulder feel?"

Dean blinked to clear the drowsy fog that threatened to drag him under again. "Hurts," he mumbled.

The surgery to remove the bullet had taken more than an hour. Even though it was more routine than not, Cas had paced the waiting room throughout the procedure, until Gabe had joked that he was going to wear a groove in the floor. Finally having been released from Henrikson's custody after giving a lengthy statement, Gabe had stayed with Cas while Dean was in surgery, leaving afterwards for his hotel for a much-needed shower and some sleep.

Although the danger was past, Cas and Gabe remained the Lawrence PD's only connection to the horror that had been the Novak household. They had both quickly agreed to help the cold case division sift through the research Cas had collected over the years in his storage unit, along with other cases that fit the Novak profile. Gabe had done a good job of protecting Cas, limiting his exposure to the Novak family business during their childhood and adolescence, but collaboratively their memories and experiences would provide a massive amount of useful material. The entire precinct was energized at the prospect that several missing persons cases were on the verge of being solved, bringing closure to many families.

"How'd it go?" Dean swallowed; his mouth was cottony.

"The surgery or giving my statement to Victor," Cas asked, reaching for the cup of ice water on the side table. He tipped the straw in Dean's direction so he could take a sip.

Dean noted the slight furrowing on Cas' brow. "Don't tell me I need to kick Victor's ass," he said gruffly. "I may need a day or two to regain my strength first."

Cas grinned, bending over to kiss him again.

"Mmmm." Dean smacked his lips. "That's nice." He might be higher than a kite, a very real possibility considering the tingly feeling in his limbs, but Dean thought at least part of the effervescent floating sensation was due to Cas' mouth. _God bless his wicked tongue, _he mused_. _

"Victor was very sympathetic, actually." Cas rubbed the pad of his thumb across Dean's lower lip, buoyant with the realization that he never had to stop touching this man. There was no reason to run, no more reasons to hide. Dean was _his_. Forever.

"Sympathetic as in, s_orry we accused you of murder and being a sick bastard_? Or _sorry but here's a year's probation_?"

Cas smirked. "More like _sorry, but how would you like a job for the next few months._"

"What?" Dean tilted his head on the pillow, so fucking adorable that Cas sighed in contentment. He nudged an inch closer, pressing tight against Dean's hip.

"You're gorgeous."

Dean snorted. "Focus, babe."

"Victor asked Gabe and I to work with Cold Case on missing persons research, try to match the women and girls we remember to unsolved cases."

Dean frowned. "I don't want you wrapped up in any of that. You deserve to put the past behind you now."

"No," Cas shook his head. "It's good actually. It will help, I think, both of us. All of those girls can be laid to rest, and their families will no longer suffer." He looked across the room to the window; it was dark now and he wondered what time it was. "Melanie's body was in the grave he dug for Jess," he said softly.

Dean smoothed his arm around Cas' waist, urging him down, the angle awkward and his shoulder on fire, but it was worth it when Cas' mouth tipped into a smile again. Dean hated that wistful, sad expression and was going to make it his life's mission to permanently eradicate it from Cas' face. He scooted over, hissing in pain when he bumped the second metal railing.

"You're going to have to be the little spoon," he pronounced, carefully turning over and continuing to maneuver Cas one-handed until he gave in and lay down beside Dean on the bed.

Cas chuckled, relishing the warmth of Dean against his back, his own shoulder aching. Dean's fingers ran along the strap of the new sling he wore.

"Where'd you get the fancy threads," Dean whispered.

Cas blinked sleepily, tucking a hand under his cheek. The only thing that would make this better, besides a larger bed, would be if he could wrap around Dean, tangle their arms and legs until it was impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began.

"While you were in surgery, a doctor cleaned and checked my stitches." He leaned his head back in Dean's direction. "He was highly impressed with Levon's work."

Dean hid his sigh of relief, but his voice was smug when he spoke. "That's my boy."

Cas wiggled his butt strategically, eliciting a soft groan. "No, Dean. _I'm_ your boy."

Dean's lips found the back of Cas' neck, lingering. "This might not be the best idea after all," he murmured against the smooth skin, tucking his nose into the dark curls, nibbling on the sensitive spot behind Cas' left ear. "You want to get naked?"

"Dean." Cas' laughter shook the bed.

"What," Dean teased. "I mean, we might have to get a little creative." He sucked in a breath when Cas' hips did that little push and slide again. "Or you could just keep doing that. _Fuck._"

"_Mr. Novak,"_ the nurse's stern voice boomed across the room when she opened the door.

Dean hid his laugh in Cas' back.

"Get out of that bed this instant." She crossed the floor with long strides, her nurse's shoes thwumping on the smooth tile. Her hands were gentle when she helped him sit up. "You could tear open his stitches and _then_ where would we be?"

"Yes ma'am," Cas said meekly.

Dean looked up at her innocently, striving for his most charming grin. "Cas was just keeping me warm." He squinted at her name tag. "Delores."

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't sass me, Mr. Winchester."

Dean grinned, leaning forward when she indicated so she could fluff his pillow.

She checked his IV bag and placed her hand on his forehead, an old-fashioned throwback that reminded Dean instantly of his mom. "You should get some rest, young man. You've had quite a day, so I hear."

"You have no idea," Dean replied with feeling and she laughed.

"And you," she frowned at Cas and he shrank back into his chair. "I better not catch you in Mr. Winchester's bed again, understand?"

Dean snorted, drawing her stern gaze and he held up his hand in surrender.

"Scout's honor, beautiful."

She rolled her eyes. "Sassing me right and left," she grumbled under her breath as she headed for the door. She swung it open forcefully, turning back to sniff in Cas' direction. "Lab will be here in five minutes to draw blood. You should probably be washing your hands in the restroom." She looked pointedly at the private bath's door in the corner of the room. "Since visiting hours were over an hour ago."

Cas grinned. "Thank you, Delores."

Delores sniffed again and shut the door quietly behind her.

Dean was still chuckling when Cas walked back to the bed. "I think she was immune to your charms, Cas."

"I think you should be glad she didn't kick me out." He used his new favorite method to curtail Dean's laughter, turning his head to get the deepest angle, a hot slide of tongues, until he heard the scraping wheels of the lab cart outside the door.

Dean gasped when Cas lifted his head. "Damn, Cas," he whispered, grabbing his neck to prevent his retreat and licking back into his mouth.

"Dean," Cas mumbled around Dean's mouth, disentangling the hand from his hair. "Bathroom."

"Right," Dean breathed. "Fucking vampires."

Cas grinned, stealing one last quick kiss before ducking behind the bathroom door just as the lab technician entered the room.

Thirty minutes later, Delores wheeled a cot through the door, scooting it up against the wall next to Dean's bed, tossing a thin blanket and pillow in Cas' surprised lap without a word.

"I think I love you, Delores," Dean declared sleepily. He was relieved Cas wouldn't need to sit up all night in the hard-backed chair, but he knew better than to tell him to go home and come back in the morning. He wouldn't have acted any differently were their roles reversed.

"Mmm hmmm," Delores hummed, tucking the blanket in tight around Dean's chest. "That would be the morphine."

Dean caught her fingers, kissing them sloppily, much to her consternation.

"Stop that," she reprimanded, but her eyes were twinkling when she winked at Cas. "You have your hands full, Mr. Novak."

Cas smiled. "I do. And thank you, Delores."

She waved him off, padding from the room again, hitting the light on her way out.

"Cas?"

Cas had just started to drift off, the day, hell, the past _week_, finally too much, his eyes refusing to stay open one more second.

"Yeah?"

"Love you," Dean mumbled, sleep already claiming him.

Cas smiled in the dark. _Me too._

...

Dean was standing in the middle of the living room, unbuttoning his shirt when Cas and Gabe pushed through the front door.

"And then, I told her—" Gabe stopped. "Hey handsome."

"Dean," Cas exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing home?" His eyes narrowed on Dean's missing shoulder sling. "What did you do."

Dean laughed, shrugging the shirt from his arm, tilting his shoulder in Cas' direction.

"Got my stitches out," he said proudly. The skin around the bullet wound was still bright pink, puckered from the knots that had held the edges in place until they could knit together.

Cas frowned. "I wanted to go with you." He dropped his car keys on the bookcase by the door and walked straight into Dean's arms.

_No personal space issues here,_ Dean grinned to himself. "I think I can manage one measly doctor's appointment by myself." He dipped his head for a kiss, ignoring Gabe's snort.

"Don't mind me, over here by the door." Gabe waited a beat but there was no response from the pair in the center of the living room. "Guys. Still here."

Cas lifted his head, sighing. "Do you want to stay for dinner?"

"No," Dean said before Gabe could answer.

"Wow, Deano, I'm feeling the love."

"You're going to be hearing the love if you don't hit the street pronto," Dean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I can take a _shower_ now."

Cas snorted. "The shower's not going anywhere, Dean."

"And I'm hungry," Gabe whined behind them. "Cas wouldn't stop for lunch."

"That's a lie," Cas said calmly, trying to step out of Dean's embrace and failing when Dean pulled him tight against him again, hands worming under his t-shirt.

"Well, I'm still hungry," Gabe groused.

Dean was kissing Cas' neck now, hands dragging the t-shirt high and exposing more warm skin for his hands to explore. Cas' eyes had fluttered shut.

"For the love of Christ, I'm _still here,_" Gabe complained.

Dean began to back Cas toward the hallway. "Yeah, bye," he said around a mouthful of Cas' neck. He grinned and lifted his head when he heard the front door slam.

"Naked. Shower. Now." He grabbed the hem of the t-shirt and ripped it over Cas' head.

Cas blinked, stunned.

Dean smirked and went to work on his fly, still pushing him down the hall. His fingers dipped inside Cas' boxers, and that was the catalyst that shoved Cas into motion. He slammed Dean into the narrow corridor's wall, mouth latching onto his, hands frantic as they scraped over the bare skin of Dean's chest, sliding under his open shirt to claw at his back.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean moaned, head knocking against the drywall when Cas bit at his neck.

"Waited so long for this" Cas whispered huskily, kissing an apology across Dean's wounded shoulder, then back up to claim his mouth again, dragging the shirt from his arms.

Dean tucked his hands down the back of Cas' jeans, loosening them down his hips.

"Too many clothes," he grumbled.

Cas made quick work of Dean's fly, shoving his pants and boxers to his knees. He stopped to kick off his shoes, and Dean, grinning, did the same. Cas dropped to his knees and Dean gasped, head banging against the wall again when hot breath blew over his sensitive groin; he was already half hard and leaking.

Cas' hands were gentle when they pulled Dean's socks from his feet. He tossed the discarded clothes into a pile down the hall, and smiled when he smoothed his hands up Dean's thighs.

"Cas," Dean breathed, eyes closing when warm lips finally closed around him. "_Fuck._" His hips began to move of their on volition, but Cas held him in place against the wall with firm fingers. After a moment Dean pushed his mouth away, hands raking through Cas' dark hair, falling to his knees beside him.

"Dean," Cas pouted, lips red and wet and unbelievably sexy. "I wasn't finished."

Dean chuckled and kissed him long and deep. "I'm not either." He nudged him back on the floor.

Cas hissed when the cold hardwood hit the bare skin of his back. He lifted his hips to allow Dean to tug his jeans off, then parted his knees so Dean could lay between them.

Dean lowered himself over him, wincing. "Ow," he complained, shifting his weight off of his injured shoulder.

Cas leaned up on his elbows, their noses bumping, lips colliding. "Roll over, dumbass," he murmured.

Dean snorted and let Cas turn him, neatly reversing their position. "No fair, it's supposed to be my turn."

Cas grinned, kissing a well-loved trail down his chest, stopping just shy of the spot above Dean's pubic bone that never failed to make him squirm in anticipation. He retraced the path in reverse, tongue dragging over the warm skin. "Next time."

He reached between them, hands searching, fingers stroking the hard length pressing into his stomach, loving the way Dean moved under him, hips undulating, skin quivering when he found a particularly sensitive spot with teeth or hands.

"You keep saying that," Dean gasped when Cas' tongue licked a gentle stripe across his still-healing collarbone.

"Bones take time to mend," Cas murmured, traveling downward again. "You just lie back and enjoy it." He ran his open mouth across the grooves and dips of Dean's abdominal muscles, smiling with each tic and jump in response.

He slid back up his body, smiling when they fit together, hot and sweaty, initiating a sweet friction when he took them both in his hand and began to move. Dean tried to help, insinuating searching fingers between their bodies, but Cas batted his hands away, sucking gentle kisses along his neck. He nibbled Dean's bottom lip, pulling away when Dean opened his mouth under him.

"Cas," Dean whined, banging his head on the floor.

Cas sat up suddenly. "Wait here."

"_Oh my fucking God,_" Dean groaned, hand fisting around the base of his cock, stroking once, twice, trying to relieve the intense build of pressure under the hot skin. He laughed breathlessly when Cas hopped over him, butt naked, disappearing through the bedroom door. When he returned he dropped a thin blanket on Dean's lap, kneeling on the floor beside him again.

"Are we camping now, is that what this is," Dean teased, shoving the blanket aside. The only warmth he wanted right now was Cas' body, on top of him. He lifted his head and let Cas slide a pillow underneath, groaning when Cas produced a second pillow.

Cas dipped his head low and opened his mouth over Dean's hipbone. He sucked a hard kiss into the smooth skin. "Lift your ass, Winchester."

Dean's heart began to race. _Jesus fucking Christ,_ his thoughts tumbled over one another when Cas settled over him, dragging his tongue along the sandpaper stubble of Dean's jaw before fusing their mouths together in a lingering kiss.

"Truth or dare, Dean," Cas whispered into his mouth.

Dean smiled contentedly. They had shared a painful, dark past, one that could now be allowed to fade away, forgotten. But there would always be pieces that were too precious, too cherished to simply abandon, and Dean was grateful that between the two of them, they could keep those memories separate, unsullied and untainted.

"Truth," he replied softly.

Cas grinned, opening the bottle he had brought along with the pillows, pouring the liquid into his palm. Dean gasped when those slick fingers closed around him, pulling just hard enough to set his teeth on edge, before sliding lower, seeking more warmth, slipping easily inside of him.

"What's your favorite body part, Dean," Cas asked. He teased the head of Dean's cock with his lips, tonguing the underside, the slit. "Mouth?"

He crooked a finger gently and Dean's head thudded on the hardwood again. "_Fuck."_

"Hands?" Cas wiggled against him, pushing his own hardness against the muscle of Dean's calf. "My cock," he grinned lasciviously, using an ankle to entwine their legs, enhancing the pressure of his slow thrusts against Dean's leg.

Dean was shaking his head, moaning. "Don't make me choose," he grunted, hands fisting in Cas silky hair, sliding a thumb into that pretty mouth. Cas bit at the pad between his teeth, sucking gently in time to the slow glide of his fingers as he searched deep again, wanting to hear Dean cry his name.

"Pick one, baby," Cas whispered, dropping his forehead to rest on Dean's hip. He increased the pace of his fingers.

Dean's groan ripped from his throat, echoing prettily off of the hardwood. "Can't. _Can't._" He shook his head, tugging at Cas' hair again. "Get up here before you kill me," he gasped.

Cas chuckled, gently sliding his fingers free, cupping Dean's hips so he could mouth at his cock again, sucking it deep into his throat. Dean was writhing now.

"Cas, _goddammit._"

Cas hummed around a mouthful of _Dean,_ releasing him with a _pop_. He crawled back up Dean's body, wiggling his hips and puling one of Dean's legs around his waist. He nudged at his entrance, mouth hovering a hairsbreadth from Dean's lips.

"Do you want to know what my favorite is," he whispered. He licked at Dean's mouth, allowing him to suck his tongue deep inside. "Mmm, all of it, Dean," he said, emitting a delicious, long groan when he slid into place, Dean tight and hot around him.

Dean hissed, hands clutching at Cas' hips, pulling him closer. "It's about fucking time, you fucking bastard."

Cas laughed, holding himself up on his elbows so he could watch Dean's expressive face as he rocked into him. "We're definitely working on your pillow talk."

His eyes rolled back in his head. He wasn't going to last long. It was the catch-22 of sex with Dean; he was so fucking hot, Cas was entirely too worked up by the time they got to the main event. On the other hand, there was always tomorrow, and the day after that.

And the day after that.

Dean groaned again, loud and long, stretching his head back, and Cas took advantage of the long expanse of neck now available.

"Right there, baby." Dean's hips snapped up to meet Cas' thrusts. They both chuckled when a particularly athletic maneuver slid them down the slick hallway floor a few inches. "Bear in mind," Dean grunted, hands smoothing up Cas' back, then back down, grinding against him. "Neither of us needs a concussion right now. So watch the walls."

Cas' breath was fast, heavy, and his long eyelashes fluttered. Dean reached a hand between them and touched himself; if Cas was close, he wanted to be right behind him. He loved it when they came together. _God, that was girly,_ he thought, snorting. Then he was distracted by Cas' face, intense eyes laser focusing on Dean's, followed by a biting, sucking kiss on his lips, Cas groaning his name as he thrust hard, back arched in ecstasy.

Cas collapsed, arms shaking, unable to hold his weight any longer. "Oh my _God,_" he gasped, still rocking gently against Dean's hips, squeezing every last drop of pleasure from the motion.

The thoroughly debauched look of Cas, naked and sweaty, hair standing on end, and blue, blue eyes dark with lust pushed Dean over the edge and he came with a shout. His fingers clawed into Cas' back. Cas swallowed his moans, kissing him long and gloriously deep.

"_Fuck._" Dean breathed, once he could see again. He gathered Cas close, rearranging them so that he was tucked into his side. He felt around for the discarded blanket, pulling it over them. They were both shivering now, crashing in the glow of the aftermath.

Cas snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around Dean's waist. "We should go to bed," he mumbled against his neck.

"Nuh uh," Dean shook his head, eyes closed. "Too much work to move." His hand was massaging lazy circles on Cas' hip.

They lay together in the hall until their breathing had evened and calmed, the quiet of the darkening house peaceful. Cas nosed his earlobe, kissing his cheek softly.

"Love you."

Dean smiled. "Truth or dare, Cas." He could feel Cas' lips turn up against his neck.

"Dare."

Dean snorted. "Christ, seriously? You _are_ going to kill me."

Cas leaned up on one elbow, gazing down at him in amusement. "Well, no, technically I won't."

Dean groaned. "Too soon, Cas." He laughed when Cas climbed on top of him. "And too soon for that, too, you addict." He slapped Cas' bare butt. "Get up, Novak. I'm too old to sleep on the floor."

Cas stood, pulling Dean to his feet. He wrapped the blanket around him, leaning forward to kiss the scar on his shoulder.

"Hey," Dean whispered, pulling him close. "You want in here?" He opened the blanket.

"Nope," Cas winked, dodging Dean's grasp and sauntering down the hall, his toned ass literally the best Dean had ever seen. "I'm going to take a _shower._"

Cas disappeared around the corner and Dean blinked.

"Damn straight," he said, throwing the blanket aside enthusiastically. "Of course, you really _are_ going to kill me," he muttered as he followed Cas down the hall.

"At least you'll die happy," Cas called.

Dean grinned. That he would.

...

Dean had been pacing the shining marble floor of the courthouse lobby for the better part of twenty minutes. Cas grabbed his elbow when he passed, halting him. "You're going to break a sweat, Dean."

"Where are they," Dean grumbled, turning Cas' wrist so he could read the time on his watch.

Cas smiled, sliding his hand down to twine their fingers together. "They'll be here. We have plenty of time."

Dean still scowled. "Do you have all of the paperwork?"

"Dean," Cas cajoled, pulling the other man close, using his huskiest voice to capture his attention. "Take a breath," he whispered against Dean's ear.

Dean huffed, closing his eyes against a hot spurt of pure lust. "Damn you," he growled, pressing their mouths together in a hard kiss. "Stop distracting me."

Cas chuckled. "Works every time."

"Cas! Dean!" Jess' sweet voice echoed excitedly across the formal interior of the courthouse.

"See, right on time," Cas breathed against Dean's temple.

"Shut up."

Jess was on them then, wrapping her long slim arms around Cas' neck, her beautiful face shining in happiness as she hugged him tight. A tiny jeweled flower winked out of her pixie-short hair, just above her left ear.

"Hey, now," Dean complained. "Since when does Cas rate over me?"

Jess rolled her eyes and grabbed Dean's neck in a fierce hug too. "You're such a baby, Dean."

"He's just worried his rank has fallen to third now, behind me and Sam," Cas deadpanned.

"Spoken like a true Winchester," Sam said in amusement, reaching for Cas' hand. "I'm pretty sure I still rank as number one with Jess, though."

"Sam," Cas grinned, accepting Sam's firm grasp.

"Cas," Sam nodded. There was a deep, abiding affection in his gaze as he looked between his wife, his brother, and Cas.

"I am _not _worried_,_" Dean protested. "Cas clearly has the best-looking Winchester, anyway."

"Not for long," Cas winked and Dean flushed.

"Cas, stop teasing poor Dean, he's as red as my dress." Mary was smiling as she approached the group. She was, indeed, wearing a deep rose-hued dress and Cas thought she looked beautiful.

"Mary," he murmured against her hair when she wrapped her arms around him.

She released him and placed a warm hand against Dean's cheek. "You look very handsome, baby, don't you pay any attention to these two."

"Mom," Dean ducked his head, secretly pleased.

"John," Cas interrupted, reaching forward to shake the eldest Winchester's hand. John surprised them all when he yanked hard on Cas' hand, wrapping him up tight in a bearhug.

"Castiel, you're _my_ favorite Winchester," John said gruffly against his temple. When he released him, Cas' hair was in even more disarray than normal.

Dean was grinning at him like a fool and Cas felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment. "Thank you," he managed to say.

Dean slapped his hands together, the sound ricocheting off the marble walls. "So. Are we ready?"

"Let's do this," Sam nodded, taking Jess' hand.

Cas laughed at them, his family, every one of them looking at him expectantly, faces radiant with love and acceptance.

"Let's do this," he repeated.

The court clerk eyed all of them in confusion when they surrounded her window. "Can I help you?"

Cas stepped forward, opening the packet of paperwork he held in his hand. "I would like to file a name change order."

"All right," she said hesitantly, holding out her hand. She read over each page, checking it carefully. "Former name, Castiel Novak." She frowned as she looked a second paper. "And, James Goodwin?"

Cas nodded.

She continued. "Proposed name, James Castiel Goodwin Winchester."

"Yes," Dean said before Cas could answer.

The clerk looked at him sideways, biting the inside of her cheek. "Mr. Novak?"

"Yes," Cas said with a soft smile directed at Dean. "That's correct."

The clerk checked the other documentation Cas had provided and notarized the appropriate pages. "That will be one hundred and thirty-five dollars."

Cas reached for his wallet but Dean stepped in front of him, money already in hand.

"I'm paying." He couldn't look at Cas, but the tips of his ears burned.

Behind him Sam snickered.

"Shh," Jess shushed him.

Cas swallowed a smile. "He's paying," he said solemnly, nodding his head toward Dean.

"I can see that," the clerk said drily. She took the money from Dean and carefully wrote out a receipt. "It will take approximately four weeks before you receive official notice by certified mail of the change. At that point you may apply for a new Social Security card."

"Thank you," Cas murmured. Dean reached down and squeezed his hand.

"Anything else?" The clerk was still watching them carefully, this unsual group of family, gathered around the handsome couple in front of her. If she didn't know better, and they weren't in the state of Kansas, she'd say it reminded her of a wedding.

"I think that's it," Cas said.

"That's it?" Dean asked worriedly. "Are you sure?"

"Uhh," the clerk frowned. "Yes?"

"Wait!" The voice bounced loudly across the foyer. "Wait, wait!"

The Winchesters, and Castiel, turned to the frantic calls.

Gabe slid to a stop, handsomely turned out in a tuxedo. "Did I miss it? Am I too late?" He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping. "Fuck me, we got behind a damn garbage truck and I had to run two blocks."

"Gabe," Cas admonished.

"Nope," Dean interrupted. "Not late at all." He yanked Gabe upright and pulled him aside. Gabe handed him something, rolling his eyes at Dean's black look and urgent whisperings.

Cas eyed the two of them suspiciously. "What's going on?"

Jess sighed sweetly and dabbed at her eyes, and Sam pulled her close.

Cas looked at the faces surrounding him, each watching him fondly, and he knew he was missing an important piece of a puzzle. He glanced back at Dean, who stepped forward and took his hand. "Dean?"

"Cas." Dean licked his lips nervously. "You're not just a Winchester in name only. You're a Winchester by choice. You chose me, and I choose you."

He opened his hand, two plain gold rings in the center of his palm.

Cas sucked in a breath. He touched the rings with a tentative fingertip; they were warm where they had nestled against Dean's skin. "You chose me, and I choose you," Cas whispered. He smiled into Dean's eyes.

Dean slid one of the rings on Cas' finger, and Cas did the same with its twin. It caught on Dean's knuckle and Dean exhaled in relief when it slid into place. They stood grinning at each other goofily until Gabe cleared his throat.

"Is that it? I rented a tux for _that?_"

"Shut up, Gabe," Cas and Dean said in unison. Cas laughed, joy bubbling up in his throat, spilling over until he could practically feel it radiating from his pores.

Dean glanced over at the clerk, chuckling when he saw she was dabbing at her eyes.

"Oh go on, then," she cried, waving a hand at them. "Kiss him already."

Dean smiled broadly. "Yes ma'am." He pulled Cas close, kissing him softly, keeping it chaste but with a promise for more later. His mom and dad were right there, after all.

The Winchester clan, plus Gabe, and the clerks now gathered at the window, began to clap and cheer.

"Now let's go eat!" Gabe proclaimed. "My treat!"

Everyone laughed and began to talk at once, Sam and Gabe arguing over the restaurant choice. Cas hesitated, turning back to the window after a few feet. Dean waited, their hands clasped between them.

"Thank you," Cas said sincerely.

"You're welcome, Mr. Winchester," the clerk said kindly.

Cas sighed deeply when they stepped into the sunshine. He squeezed Dean's fingers. "Wow."

Dean smiled down at him. "Wow," he agreed. "Any second thoughts?"

Cas shook his head. "Not on your life," he murmured, reaching up to press their mouths together.

"Would you two quit necking and come on, I'm starved," Gabe yelled from the sunroof of a stretch limousine parked in front of the courthouse steps.

Dean grinned. "I'll be taking you up on that offer later, Mr. Winchester."

"Deal," Cas winked, content to wait.

After all, they had the rest of their lives.

...


	18. Epilogue

_ Six Weeks Later_

Cas walked barefoot across the cool tile of the patio, carrying happy-colored drinks with jaunty little umbrellas.

Dean was lying on a double chaise lounge on the lanai of Gabe's seaside Puerto Rican home, the sweet smell of plumeria wafting through the air, the peaceful sounds of the waves brushing the shores below them.

"You just had to add an umbrella, didn't you?" Dean took the drink and lifted his face for a kiss.

Cas lingered over his lips, breathing the warm, salty sea smell of Dean's skin. "Mmm, shut up," he murmured, letting his mouth trail across Dean's cheek to the soft skin below his ear. "You love the umbrellas."

Dean grunted, but he was smiling as he watched Cas settle onto the chaise next to him. They had been in Puerto Rico for seven days of their two-week vacation. He was seriously considering never leaving. Gabe could do all the cold case work for Cas, and Sam could do all the detective work for Dean. It was foolproof.

"So how about we go into San Juan tomorrow and do a little exploring?" Cas sipped his drink, sighing in satisfaction. This really had been a perfect week.

"What happened to naked Saturday," Dean complained, frowning petulantly.

Cas snorted. "Well, for one thing, you've already had Naked Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I think you can afford to wear clothes for one day, Dean, so we can get out of the house for an afternoon."

Dean watched a seagull circle lazily over the pretty white sand before dive-bombing for fish in the lapis blue water. "I'm wearing clothes now," he pointed out.

Cas set his glass carefully on the lanai floor, then rolled over on top of Dean in a whip-quick move. Dean's laugh rang out over the crashing surf.

"Not for long," Cas said, grinning above him.

"Hey, watch it," Dean protested, holding his sloshing glass aloft. "Mmm," he sighed, tilting his head so Cas had clearer access to that place on his neck that drove him crazy.

Cas dipped one hand into the low-slung drawstring pants Dean wore. He lifted his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Too much effort to wear underwear today?" His fingers searched, sliding lower until they found their target.

Dean's eyelashes fluttered and he exhaled shakily. _Goddamn sexy fucker with his magic hands_. "I'm looking out for you, baby," he whispered, leaning forward enough so he could tongue at Cas' throat. "Just saving you some valuable time."

Cas wrapped his fingers around him and Dean hissed, biting into the soft skin of Cas' throat.

"I don't know why you even bothered packing a bag," Cas murmured against Dean's hair, his hand finding a rhythm, his own nerve endings sparking with each sucking kiss Dean placed to his neck.

"I don't know why you're still talking," Dean replied huskily. He whimpered, breath faltering when Cas' wrist executed a neat twist and pull.

Cas smiled down at him, handsome and relaxed and eight kinds of sexy, and Dean's pulse beat even faster. He slid his palms into the back of Cas' pants, encountering smooth, warm flesh. He squeezed, grinning wide.

"Hey now," he protested. "That's my trick. Pot, meet kettle."

Cas dipped his mouth to kiss him, urging Dean's lips open until their tongues were teasing, darting together, then dancing away.

When he lifted his head, Dean was breathless and maybe a little starry-eyed. _Jesus Christ, I love him,_ he thought, chest achingly full of things lost and things gained.

"I love you." The words escaped, soft and earnest, and Dean reveled in the peace that he had no reason to try and protect his heart by withholding the sentiment ever again.

The truth was, his heart had been lost a long time ago anyway, to the man who lay on top of him. They had been entwined so deeply into one another's lives for so many years, survived so much, lost everything and found it again, Dean thought it possible there was no longer a clear delineation between their two souls. Cas would never have to wonder how Dean felt, because Dean planned to tell him, now, later, and every day for the rest of their lives.

"I love you too." Cas pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek. "Now get naked," he growled into Dean's ear.

Laughing, Dean obliged.

...

_fin_

**_Author's Note:_**

This story was an original fiction piece I started somewhere between 6 and 10 years ago. (I'm aging myself now!) I lost interest in it back then, couldn't find a rhythm writing it, and finally gave it up to begin something new. I've kept the original storyline in a folder, though, and it's been waiting for it's moment in the sun ever since. Some of you have asked, and yes, I would LOVE to see it in print, but alas, I'm not sure the world we live in is ready for this story. Maybe some day. I love it, even though it was painfully hard to write at times (I walked away for two days, two different times in the past month!) And while it could probably do with a full on edit session, I frankly don't care about its errors or its rough edges. I faced this piece as a test of my ability to write, to face my own personal demons and fears and tackle tough subjects. Reading your reviews has been the best part of all. You've called it a horror story, a mystery, a case fic, among other things, but most of all I think it's a love story, and I am thrilled that you let me tell it. Thank you.


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